The Way We Were
by greatunironic
Summary: [FINISHED June 19th] A story about broken friendships and how the best things always happen a little too late. [Sequel to 'A Question of Gravity'.]
1. One: The Lost

**t h e w a y w e w e r e**  
_A story about broken friendships and how the best things always happen a little too late._

**Disclaimer:** No, no, and no.  
**Big, Honkin' Warning:** AU. Very, very AU. Just pretend you've never seen any of the episodes after _The Aenar_ and that we already know all about Malcolm's sordid past. Also, T'Pol bashing abounds. 'Cause I'm a hypocrite.  
**Note the First:** I brought the happy on a trip to New York. Sequel to _A Question of Gravity_.  
**Note the Second:** This was supposed to be a single chapter thing, like _Gravity_ was, about the time I took a swan dive off the edge of, you know, sanity.  
**Note the Third: **This is the first thing I've written and begun posting that hasn't been completely finished. I mean, I know where I'm going with this (the first scene ever written for it is at the end) and the plot is vaguely sketched out. What I'm trying to say is that it may take awhile to get the entire thing out. But I will, I swear. And your input will actually affect this thing!

_Perfect happiness I believe was never intended by the deity to be the lot of any one of his creatures in this world; but that he has very much put in our power the nearness of our approaches to it, is what I as steadfastly believe._

—_Thomas Jefferson_

* * *

One: The Lost

_You'll come back again  
__And I'll still be your friend._

—_Wilco, "A Box Full of Letters"_

_From _Whitmore's School for Girls' Weekly Newspaper

_August 30th, 2156: NEW TEACHERS!_

_With the start of a new school year, there's always bound to be one or two new teachers. But this year—we've got the goods here at Whitmore's._

_Teaching physics this semester will be Charles Tucker the III. In his last few jobs—wait for it—he was a Warp engineer aboard the _Enterprise _and the _Columbia_; and just about a year back, he was a Starfleet Captain! Mr. Tucker's classes should prove most interesting. That is, if we girls can get over his stunning good looks and Southern boy charm, of course!_

_Also among the new teachers Whitmore's is going to be receiving are a new music teacher and a new English teacher, Ms. Emily Lucas and Mr.…_

_-_

_From _The San Francisco Chronicle

…_Malcolm Reed, one of Earth's most brilliant minds. In his early thirties, he was the Chief Armory Officer and Chief of Security aboard Earth's first Warp Five vessel, the NX-01 _Enterprise_. During his tenure there, he helped to put together several phase cannons in mere hours and, according to his old shipmate Lieutenant—then Ensign—Travis Mayweather, "saved our butts more times then I can remember." (Mayweather also reminisced on those days, when Reed was one half of what the crew still refers to as the 'Disaster Twins'. He recalled with great delight some of the Twins adventures, and one of Mayweather's own jaunts outside the ship with Reed: a little comet-walk with some explosives. Mayweather still remembers Reed being upset because the symmetry of the blast was "all wrong".)_

_Now, Reed, Head of Weapons Development in Starfleet's Research Division, is being promoted to Captain. He's going to be given his own command of the new _Daedalus_ class starship, the _Avenger_. Equipped on the ship are going to be some of Reed's own contributions to the field of Weapon's Engineering: top of the line…_

_-_

**Connecticut, 2161**

I lean my hands against my thighs, breathing heavily. My hair, grown longer than regulation, hangs down into my eyes. I reach a hand up and swipe it away, before replacing the hand back down. A drop of sweat slips down my forehead as I watch curiously from my driveway.

Why are they here? I wonder to myself, staring at the men on my porch. I've been long retired from Starfleet, and it's definitely not like I want to go back: I lost too much of myself there, up there, far, far up there; a lot of me is gone and never coming back. I'm happy here in Connecticut, teaching. So it gets cold, so it snows—teaching physics is a far cry from engineering and I like it.

It makes me feel sane.

Blowing out I breath, I stand up straight and jog to my porch. _He_'s standing there, watching me as I come up through the grass. He takes off his hat in a sweeping motion, bringing it to his chest, saying, "Captain."

"Trip now, Admiral Archer," I reply, rolling my shoulders out. Jon grins that little mysterious grin of his, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. I suppose that old light was lost, just like parts of me, all those years ago. Too much—or is it too little?—has happened. We've changed in very secret ways. And nothing makes much sense anymore. So we stand on my porch, seven years of distance between us—and that makes no sense either. Once, we had been so good of friends and now…

"I suppose you're wondering why I'm here," he says suddenly, breaking the awkward silence that had descended on us.

"Yew suppose correctly." I stretch one arm up and then the other. He watches distractedly. Once upon a time, he would have been running with me, and so would have Porthos. But Porthos died a few years ago and Jon and I don't talk anymore. Not voluntarily of course: we drifted apart. When Hernandez died in that battle, I was given command of _Columbia_ and Jon had been on _Enterprise_. There had been no time to speak.

And, after I left and I came to Connecticut to teach, I had never tried to build the ties back between us. I was lonely and bitter and just couldn't deal well with my past. So we stayed apart. It was what was best for both of us. Jon was all broken from what he had been made to do and I—I was just broken. But we never had a big falling out, not like Malcolm and I.

I don't like to think about that.

I turn back to Jon as he looks at me. There is so much space and time between us. I'm a teacher now and Jon…

Jon is one of the leading admirals now in Starfleet, but, no matter how much good he does, he'll always been the elephant in the room. He was used. Starfleet's directors sent him out to explore, a captain and his crew all filled with wide-eyed innocence and wonder. And then they set out to turn us into killers, murderers, avengers—Jon, more so than the rest of us. He did things to protect his crew, his family, to keep us safe; he did so many terrible, terrible things for us—_and for Earth_—that, while saving them, horrified them. So they're ashamed of him, of what they created. They used him.

Like T'Pol used me. Only, I was an experiment in emotion. I was not a savior. I was a test subject. She wanted to feel like a human and I, depressed, lonely, bitter, willing, and so very _there_, was whom she tried it all out on. And she made me believe, made me think that I loved her and that she loved me and wouldn't we be just _so_ happy together? And when I realized what I had been made to believe, it had been too late. Too much of me was gone to her, sold away.

I ran. I had to get away from her and what she convinced me of, her disillusionments. But, in the process, I lost everything. All that I cared about, all that I loved—especially Malcolm, my friend, my _brother_. (Even after all these years, too, I still think of him as such.) So I ran because of her, of a fear of hurting Malcolm, of what we were doing. And, with running, I lost it.

I have never gotten it back. I have nothing, no one—Malcolm is gone, away from me because I hurt him even though I tried not to; Jon is a stone's through from crazy and the pink elephant; T'Pol—well, she destroyed me. Took away my love. I cannot love again because of her. Sure, there have been women—a string of meaningless relationships and faceless girls who try to comfort a pain they can't reach.

So here I am, still running. In Connecticut, teaching physics at an all girl's school. I'm running so hard, so fast, that—almost—I am (I wish I was) moving backwards. Back to when Jon didn't have the Admiral's pip, back to when he smiled and it reached his eyes. Back to those first two years, back to when T'Pol was T'Pol and I was Trip—Laughing Trip, Happy Trip. Back to when Malcolm was a tight ass Brit with a hidden wild streak that only I knew. I wish things were the same, like they had been.

I wish we were the people that we were back then.

My old captain shifts from foot to foot. His entourage—consisting of two ensigns with frowns so serious on their faces that I want to laugh—look on impassively. Jon asks, "What are you thinking about?"

There had been a time when I would have said "the usual" and he would've known exactly what I was going on about. Hell, there had been a time when he never even _had_ to ask me. Instead of something witty and glib or a "the usual" (because times have changed, we've changed, and he doesn't know what "the usual" is for me anymore), I tell him, "The lesson plan for tomorrow."

He knows that I'm lying—it's in the eyes, Malcolm used to say to me—but he nods anyway, shifting nervously on his feet. I wonder what he wants—again—briefly. What possible use could Starfleet have with a high school physics teacher? I ask myself. Besides the obvious fact that that high school physics teacher used to be a Starfleet captain and top Warp engineer who still makes anonymous contributions to the Warp Program. Quite the job title, huh?

I stretch my legs now, one at a time, still wondering. What does he want?

"Starfleet needs you."

No. I ain't comin' back, yew bastards can't make me; not unless yew knock me out an' tie me up in a sack an' drag me all the way to ol' San Fran. So go fuck yerselves.

"No," I reply instead, forgoing my stretches and brushing past him. I open my front door and enter. (We don't lock our doors in Connecticut.) I don't look behind me as I do so and am halfway through with closing the door (still not looking) when he sticks his foot in the way, effectively shutting down my plans of, you know, slamming the door in his face _'cause I ain't comin' back_. I spin around and am about to ask him just what the fuck it is he wants when he starts to talk.

"It's Malcolm."

Well, he's gotten my attention.

"He's missing."

Huh. That changes everything, doesn't it?

I slide the door open, slowly. He stares at me, eyes broken like dry earth but his earth is wet and raining. His eyes never used to be like the broken earth. They used to be trees and wood and like that umbrella my mama had when I was a kid. His eyes had never, ever been broken before. He enters. I shut the door on the ensigns.

Because, while most things change, some things always stay the same and this is a family matter now.

He let's me lead him into my living room, which, had I known I was going that have guests, I would have cleaned up. Books and papers are strewn everywhere. I had been grading yesterday's tests last night and, after this morning's jog and a shower, I was going to finish them so I could hand them back on Monday. That, I believe, has just turned into what we educated men call a "pipe dream".

I clear a space on the couch for him, taking up some of the latest engineering journals (one of which I believe has an article in it by me; under a pen name, of course) and placing them in a semi-neat stack on the coffee table, next to a pile of graded tests and an old car part. How'd that get there?

"Hard grader," Jon comments, looking at the top test.

"Dumb girl," I reply. I'm not being mean, either: the girl honestly is a sandwich short of a picnic, if you know what I mean. She's brilliant in English and languages but I'll be damned is she could figure out a simple speed calculation. And she doesn't apply herself to it very well, which incurs my wrath and therefore allows me to mock her. In the privacy of my own home, of course. I sit down in a chair, asking, "What happened?"

He leans forward and presses his elbows into his knees, broken earth eyes glued to a place that I can't see. He says, "You know he got Captain a few months back, right?"

I nod, even though he can't see me, and say, "Yeah." Despite how we—I—ended our friendship those seven years ago, I kept up on all his news. I had been so proud to hear his was getting his own ship—a state of the art, top of the line ship—_Daedalus_ class—no less. Complete with…okay, so I didn't pay much attention to the weaponry the ship was going to be equipped with, mainly because I didn't know what half of it meant but it sounded pretty sweet. I was more interested in the engine system.

That had been part of our late relationship. He was interested in blowing stuff up and I was interested in how things worked. I was the creator, he was the destroyer. But, somehow, we worked well together and bonded and became good friends. We became a team, a family.

I miss him.

"He got orders from the top brass"—it's funny to hear Jon say "top brass" now that he's one of them—"to take the _Avenger_ out for a test drive with a skeleton crew. He brought a detail of engineers, including his chief, a medical team, some navigators, a couple science officers, two mess officers, and two security details." That's my Malcolm, I think, always hard on for security. Jon continues, "It was just a patrol, you know?"

I nod, before asking again, a little harder this time, "What happened?"

Jon looks up at me for the first time. "We received a communiqué from them yesterday that was sent approximately three days prior. They were under attack. We haven't gotten anything else from them."

"Have you sent anyone out for them?" I question. Jon shakes his head in disgust.

"They say we're too damn tied up with bringing new planets into the Federation," he growls. I clench my jaw; damn politicians can't spare a single ship to go after one of Starfleet's most promising captains? Jon says, "That's why I'm contacting you. We need you to go out after Malcolm and _Avenger_."

"What's the catch?" I ask, wary. Jon opens his mouth and speaks.

_-_

That night, after I fall asleep, I have the dream again.

_-_

And so begins the ecological cleansing of Trip Tucker's home.

One by one, I clean up every room in my house. I start with the living room, neatly piling all my old engineering journals and putting away those old car parts that I'd been tinkering with. I rearrange my bookshelves, separating them into two sections, fiction and nonfiction, and creating subsections for both then alphabetizing by author's last name. I slip old tests I've graded and haven't given back, lesson plans that it really doesn't make sense to have because I play it fast and loose, worksheets, graded homework, those new tests, and a whole hoard of other papers into my briefcase. I sweep the wood floors and vacuum the couch.

Next is the kitchen (nuclear holocaust; I think there may be something living in the wasteland that is my fridge), then the bathroom (I should hire a maid), then my bedroom (my closet vomited all over), and then every other room that had fallen under my reign of dirtiness.

I clean because I've already graded the tests and created lesson plans for the next, I dunno, five months and I still haven't decided. I don't know.

But this may be the last chance I'll ever get to come to terms with Malcolm. And it's very important to me, that we be friends again, because there's this big empty space in my chest where he used to be and no amount of running and other people will ever make it smaller. We became more than comrades, more than friends. We became brothers. Malcolm is my brother now and I love him as such.

And, dammit, I want my brother back.

_-_

Jon had said:

"You have to retake your rank. You have to be part of Starfleet again."


	2. Two: Baby, You're a Soldier Now

**Thank You's:** You people spoil me, you know that, right? And you also know that this is going straight to my head and I probably won't be able to get my head through the door tomorrow, correct? Now, onwards to the thank you's: Midnight Dove (I share the sentiment about Trip. _grins_), Luna, JadziaKathryn (About the used: If Malcolm didn't feel used before this story, at the end he sure as hell will.), WhtevrHpnd2Mary (_Way Out Yonder_ was a semi-sequel to _Gravity_. And, okay, I lied: I said it was happy, but it's not, really. It's going to be depressing, and sad, and quite bitter. But it will be happy at some point, dammit. And that's all I'll say on that subject.), Tata (I'm sorry to tell you—there will be a healthy dose of tragedy. But, as I said above, I will bring the happy.), JacobedRose, trecia, and RoaringMice (_"Damn you." _Oh, no doubt about that. He has an accent when he speaks because I'm completely crazy. Actually, I don't have a reason. It just happened to come out that way when I wrote it. But insanity seemed like as good an answer as any.).  
**Note the First:** This came out a lot quicker than I thought it would, mainly because I love some of the characters in here. Also, the fact that I had half of it written already didn't hurt. But now I have papers to write and my AP exam is this Friday. So, just be prepared for a longer wait for Three: The Man Who Came To Dinner.  
**Note the Second:** This chapter doesn't have a lot of Malcolm in it, mainly because I wanted to touch on all the other ties Trip has to the world around him that he's kind of broken because his head's rather far up his ass. And that means that two of my favorite people show up! But, of course, nothing would be complete withouta Reed in it, so… _grins_

* * *

Two: Baby, You're A Soldier Now 

_Well I stood stone like at midnight,  
__Suspended in my masquerade.  
__I combed my hair till it was just right  
__And commanded the night brigade._

_—Bruce Springsteen, "Growin' Up"_

When I was six, I took a pair of scissors to my hair. I cut one half of my head ridiculously short while the other half was probably two or three inches. In retrospect, I realize that that was a Very Bad idea and I looked incredibly stupid. But, at the time, I thought I looked damn good. Mama had come home and saw me and screamed so loudly her voice escalated to a pitch that I thought only dogs could hear. After the screaming, she silently took me to the barber and I had all of my hair shaved off. I looked like a cancer patient. So we went home and when Daddy got back—oh, _jeez_, we had a Family Meeting.

I have never attempted to cut my own hair ever again.

_-_

"What's the occasion, Mr. Tucker?" the barber asks, swinging the apron over my shoulders. I peer through the wet strands of my hair that fall before me eyes at his image, reflecting in the large mirror. Despite the fact that I rarely come to get my hair cut, the barber—Jim—knows who I am. Everybody knows everyone in my little town. It's both nice and annoying.

"Jus' thought I needed a trim," I say. Jim looks at me skeptically.

"Trims usually don't involve the cutting off of most of one's hair," he tells me. He brushes the comb through my hair and lifts up the silver scissors. They glint and sparkle in the light. They start to cut out little hunks of hair, flying, falling, tumbling to the floor. He comments: "With this hair cut, you'd think you were joining up with Starfleet again."

_-_

I scratch the back of my neck. How odd, not having long hair there anymore.

The red-headed secretary of Whitmore's Headmaster comes out of said Headmaster's office, closing the door behind her. She does it in that creepy, horror movie kind of silence that really freaks me out. She says, "You may go in now, Mr. Tucker."

"Thanks," I say, standing. I smooth the front of my shirt unconsciously and walk down the hall to the Headmaster's office. It's weird—even though I'm a teacher now, I still get that _Long Walk of Doom_ feeling that I used to get when I did something bad in school. I pause halfway through the walk, catching my reflection in the glass frame of a picture. I smooth back some loose tendrils of hair that the gel didn't get. Short as hell (at least, compared to my last hair style), but it's regulation now.

I start walking again, and open the Headmaster's door. There's this bad feeling in the pit of my stomach—like when Jon showed up on my door step, or like when Malcolm turned away from me. I shake my head. _Yew can make it alright soon_, I tell myself. I step into the office.

"Charles," says Headmaster Lambert, looking up from his desk. His eyes freeze on my hair. Yeah, it's _short_, it's _different_, I look like a complete schmuck—I get it, okay? After a moment, he asks, unsure, "What can I do for you?"

I play with the papers behind my back. "I was approached Saturday mornin'." I pause. He stares. Like you don't already know what I'm going to say. "By Starfleet."

"What do they want?" he asks, coldly. The papers shake gently.

"A very," I start; "a very close friend o' mine, along with his ship and crew, went missin' approximately a week ago. Admiral Archer asked if I would head the rescue mission that would be goin' after them. Yew see, with the Federation bein' formed and what not, they can't spare any ships to go out lookin' for my friend and his crew." I shake my head. "Why they don't realize he's one of the smartest guys Starfleet's got is just beyond me, but whatever."

Lambert stares up at me—at my hair, specifically—and repeats my early words to Jon, "What's the catch?"

"I hafta retake my rank," I say slowly. "Yew see, 'cause I was a captain when I resigned, I kinda made myself eligible to be pulled back into service. Woulda happened when I was a commander too, but that's beside the point. But anyway, the thing fer me was that I got asked if I wanted to rejoin. They didn' force me or anythin'."

He's still staring at me. "I assume you've made your choice." It wasn't a question.

I take two steps forward and lay my resignation papers on his desk, alongside several lesson plans. I say, "The thing is, Headmaster—my friend, the captain of the ship, he and I…we're not exactly friends anymore." I pause. "There was an incident before I transferred off my ship, between him and me, and…well, we didn' end our friendship on the best o' terms and I wanted to make that up and if he dies out there, not knowin' how sorry I am…"

I trail off. Lambert nods.

"I understand, Mr. Tucker," he says. He picks up the papers and continues, with more grace then I thought he woulda had, considering the situation, "I accept your resignation. It's been an honor working with you."

Nodding, I turn on my heel and leave.

Now, I think as I walk down the hallway and out of the school, into the bright sun of morning—to complete the rest of my tasks…

_-_

When I called Jon with my answer, he had told me what I was to do: Resign from my post at the school, return to San Francisco, meet with the admirals, and assemble the senior staff for my skeleton crew on the mission. I've known since I made my decision, though, exactly who I want on my crew. So I'm going to inform some of them, before I meet with the admirals and am given a full run-down on the situation.

First stop: Starfleet's Research Department.

_-_

"Can yew tell me where I can find Lieutenant-Commanders Fritz Schlosser and David Webster?" I ask the woman at the front desk. She looks up at me and searches my face and then looks at the rest of me, which is currently in what I assume is an old style of uniform. It's obvious that she's confused, so I say, "I'm Captain Charles Tucker."

The woman's eyes do this weird widening thing as she realizes who I am. She says, "The admirals are expecting you. They're on the fifth floor."

"I'd like to speak with the Lieutenant-Commanders, first," I inform her. She nods and consults her terminal.

"Eleventh floor. Just take the second turbolift all the way up. Their offices are the seventh doors on your left as you get out." She points to the turbolift I should take and adds, "I think they're in the middle of a testing, though, so they may be in the room next to their offices."

I nod and thank her before heading off to the 'lift. I enter and proceed to ride all the way up, as per her instructions. I lean back against the while and wonder if the Gruesome Twosome has changed much, if they still play with Lego's, if they keep in touch with Malcolm, if they know what's going on with Malcolm now. The turbolift shudders to a halt and I disembark, looking around. The hallway is dark, and I struggle to remember if Research was always like this or if they just having a power outage. I start to walk forward, thinking, _Seventh door on my left_.

I find the door. There's a little plaque that announces whose offices I'm going into: _Lt. Commander Fritz Schlosser; Lt. Commander David Webster_. I pause before opening it. Will they accept my offer to be my Security, Tactical, and Armory Officers on this mission? Part of me says, yes, they will, because they have always loved Malcolm, have always looked up to him and would do anything to save him from harm because, on some level, he's their brother too. Another part of me wonders why they aren't already out there with him, as _his_ officers. They had been his seconds for so long.

Something terrible had happened to them, though, all three of them: Malcolm, Fritz, and David. Maybe that's the reason.

I open the door and enter quietly. They're working quietly at a shared desk, standing over something. They're wearing odd uniforms, entirely black, and I wonder if there is the newest uniform that Starfleet has come up with, or if they're just wearing their own clothes. They also have on white lab coats with pips on their shoulders that display their ranks.

Fritz notices me first and his brown eyes are locked on my face when he taps David on his shoulder. David looks at him, sees his stare, and follows it. The two men stare at me. They're older than I remember them ever looking, or ever thought they would look. Privately, I used to believe that they would never grow old, that they would stay two imp like children forever. But, now, their faces are composed of hard lines and their eyes are like flakes of steel.

I don't know exactly what happened to them, just that it was terrible. The mission report is classified and rests in a locked drawer somewhere in San Francisco, with red letters printed largely on it: The Nazer'teh Incident. No one speaks of it. It's one of Starfleet's dirty little secrets, what Fritz and David and Malcolm went through on that planet, and the only actually remnants that testify to what took place (besides the classified files) are the scars they bear: David's black gloves that cover one mechanical hand; the pale white scar that stretches around Fritz's neck and, no matter what he does, that always fails to be hidden; bloody uniforms; broken voices; screaming nights; PTSD.

I hear, from sources all around, from rumors, what may have taken place. A kidnapping. A struggle. An alien. Torture, physical and psychological. The cutting off of a hand. The slitting of a throat. Malcolm, mad. A shuttle pod, stained with all their blood. Gurneys. Nights in sickbay. Emergency operations. Physical therapy. Syndromes. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. A terrifying horror story to rival Alfred Hitchcock. But the scars are the only real testaments to truth.

I don't know exactly what happened to them, nor do I want to know.

"Captain Tucker?" David asks. His voice has definitely changed from when I last spoke to him six years ago. He used to be defiantly Bostonian and, when coupled with Fritz's German-English accent, he used to sound quiet ridiculous. Now, his voice is tempered and the only notes of Boston are the flat a's.

"Commanders," I say. Fritz is looking thoughtfully at me, his one hand absently toying with the hem of his lab coat. David takes a step towards me and holds out his left hand. His right hand, I know from our meeting six years ago, is the mechanical one.

"It's good to see you, as in you yourself and you back in your old, _old_ uniform, Captain," David tells me as I take his hand. Fritz nods and David adds, "I only wish it was under better circumstances."

"Yew know," I state. They nod. David lets go of my hand and takes a step back. He and Fritz stand together now, shoulder to shoulder (though David is considerably shorter than Fritz). Dressed in those matching uniforms, they look like the twin brothers they've always been accused of being.

"Why don't you sit, Captain," David offers, one hand swooping out behind him as he gestures to a chair. I take a seat and watch as David and Fritz do the same. Fritz leans forward in his chair to look at me and David folds his arms across his chest, tucking his right hand beneath his left arm. I remember seeing him do those six years ago—it's a protective gesture that I know was spawned from fear during his torture. David asks, "What can we do for you, Captain?"

I pause and suddenly find myself in my memory, back when I saw David for the last time. It was a year since Malcolm and I stopped speaking, only that banner in the window as our last communication, (I don't know why we fell apart like we did; I think I may have just been too worried I'd hurt him even more) and it was four months after I made Captain and eight months before I resigned my commission because I just couldn't take being in space anymore, even though that was where my heart was.

_-_

_The _Columbia_ was docked at Jupiter station for some repairs and I was walking down her corridors. I had begun doing that a long time ago, just out of a restless need because I was just so tired aboard the ship, too, but I never could find that rest that I needed. I heard someone call out my name and I turned, thinking that one of the crew (I could never think of them as_ my_ crew) needed something. _

_But it was David, walking up to me. His face was pale and hard, his eyes cold. I knew then that something had happened to him._

"_Captain Tucker," he said. His voice was still wickedly Boston then. I tried to smile genuinely at him, but I failed. He didn't even attempt a smile._

"_What can I do for yew," I began, but paused, staring at his shoulders. He made full lieutenant…_

"_I need to ask something of you," he told me. "May we speak in private?"_

_I nodded and we walked back to the Ready Room in silence. Inside, he sat and I sat. We stared at each other until he broke the awkward silence._

"_I suppose you've heard what happened to Fritz, Commander Reed, and I," he said._

"_Commander?" I asked._

_David nodded. "He was promoted along with Fritz and I, after…" He trailed off, but began again, stronger. "About ten months ago, the Commander and I were sent to a planet to do some surveys and, to make a long story short, we were kidnapped and…"—here, his eyes became even harder—"…tortured."_

"_Oh," I said._

"_My hand was cut off." He said it quite matter-of-factly, like he was used to it. But he did have ten months to come to terms with what happened to him, didn't he? I was still in shock, however, when he placed his right hand on the table. He wore a black glove over it and he slowly pulled the glove off. The hand there wasn't flesh and blood, but mechanical with a plastic skin covering it. I could see where the mechanics touched real bone._

"_After our rescue," continued David, "in which Fritz's throat was slit to his vocal cords and Commander Reed…" He trailed off again and I was compelled to speak._

"_Are they alright?" I asked._

"_After a fashion," said David. He said no more on the subject of Fritz and Malcolm. "But I digress from my point of being here. After the rescue, Engineering and Phlox constructed a mechanical hand for me to use and it did quite well for the past few months, but my system has begun to reject it."_

"_Yew want me to build yew another hand?"_

"_Yes," said David. "If you wouldn't mind, that is, sir."_

_I nodded again. "O' course."_

"_Thank you," David said quietly. He stood stiffly. "I will be on Jupiter station for the next month or so."_

_Before I could work up the courage to ask him why he was staying on Jupiter Station and not aboard the _Enterprise_, he had turned and left, adding as he did so, "Commander Reed really is fine, Captain. But he misses you."_

_I missed him, too._

_David left and I built his hand. I never did get the full story._

_-_

"Captain?" asks David, breaking me out of my trance.

"Reminiscin'," I tell him, "'bout the last time I saw yew."

"Ah," he says, a small grin on his face. "The hand, by the way, is working quite lovely."

"I try," I quip. David's smile widens and a grin cuts across Fritz's gaunt face, splitting it like the scar splits his neck, and I sort of wonder why he hasn't spoken yet.

"Again, sir," says David, "what may we do for you?"

"I was asked to head Malcolm's rescue team," I say. David and Fritz eyes flick towards each other briefly before returning to me. "An' I want yew two to join me as my Security and Tactical heads. If yew wouldn't mind."

They share another one of their creepy twin looks, broadcasting their thoughts to one another. Malcolm and I used to have a communication like that, too, I think. But our bond had been long buried and I wonder if we'll ever get it back. I shake my head, trying to clear my mind, and the Gruesome Twosome are still looking at one another.

And, again, I can't help but wonder why the two of them have been relegated to Research and aren't out with Malcolm.

Suddenly, David nods and Fritz turns to me, speaking for the first time, "Of course, sir."

Part of my brain function, you know, dies as I stare at Fritz. Did that—_noise_ just come from Fritz Schlosser's mouth? It was so gravely and broken and just damned inhuman that it defies all sorts of rational explanation. And then—_Fritz's throat was slit to his vocal cords_. Oh, Fritz…

He's blushing a little under my stare and I blink, determined not to say a word because I realize how embarrassing that must be for him, to once have a beautiful voice (trust me—I heard the boy sing and, even when he's drunk, he sounds like Sinatra) and to now sound like…_that_.

"I, uh, I," I stammer, unable to help myself despite my best intentions. Fritz's head's bent down and David's glaring at me a little. "I have a meetin' I gotta go to, with the Admirals." I pause. "I guess I'll see yew two later, afterwards, or whatever…"

David rises, nodding: "Of course, Captain. We'll be waiting for you."

We stare at each other in awkward silence before I stand and leave. I close the door behind me, thinking. Damn. Did I screw that up or what? I sigh. I'll have to figure out how to fix that later, though. I have to get to that meeting.

_-_

I ride the turbo lift down to the fifth floor and exit, cursing my non-existent tact. Honestly, could I have done anything more stupid than stare at the near-mute like he was a circus freak? 'Cause it's not exactly his fault and, damn, he's got to deal with a lot of that kinda shit without his friends gawking at him. Thank God he's got David. That little hooligan wouldn't know how to let go of a friend even if they tried to beat him off with a two-by-four.

I sigh, still cursing a little. D'yew think, if I tried a little harder, I could be an even bigger horse's ass? 'Cause I think there's unexplored potential.

Turning the corner, I swing into the waiting room, fuming ever so slightly. A pretty blonde woman is sitting in one of Starfleet's uncomfortable chairs (only diplomats and, you know, important people get the really comfy ones). She has on eyeglasses that make her blue-green eyes seem very bright, and dangling bead earrings that drop down and glitter like rain under the bright ceiling lights. She's reading a magazine. A little boy, with a head of thick brown hair and bright eyes like the woman, sits beside her, drawing delightedly in a coloring book. The woman looks up and glances at her son.

"Ethan, darling, do draw inside the lines." She has a beautiful voice: English, dry, rushing, an alto. The boy—Ethan—gives her a little determined frown and goes back to drawing. She smiles affectionately, goes back to ready, and suddenly the fuming disappears as I place her.

"Madeline?"

She looks up again, at me this time. The florescent lights sparkle on her glasses as she stares. Her lips purse while he stares at me, searching my face for some hint of recognition. I remember once, in Malcolm's quarters on _Enterprise_ back when we were happy and sane, seeing a picture of her. She had been younger and smiling, and she hadn't been wearing glasses, but her cheekbones were high and her eyes were still as bright.

I remember thinking she was beautiful and blushing, because this was Malcolm's sister—his baby sister, his _only_ sister.

She's still beautiful.

Suddenly, recognition flickers across her eyes. She stands. "Trip?" Her pretty voice is very soft and she takes a hesitant step forward, towards me. "Trip _Tucker_?"

"Hey," I say, trying to be glib—but how can one in a situation like this? She takes two long strides and engulfs me with a hug. She smells like lavender and linen and the ocean, and her head fits perfectly in that space beneath my chin. Involuntarily, I make a little choking noise in the back of my throat as my body reacts to the presence of a pretty woman. I tell myself that this is Madeline, Malcolm's sister, dammit. But my body doesn't agree. Madeline, thankfully, doesn't notice, but still she pulls back and there's a little ache in the space where she was. Like how it was when Malcolm turned on his side and never said a word to me again.

She's still grasping my arms, looking me over a little. She smiles brilliantly, her white teeth, like her glasses, glistening in the light.

"They said you might be the one captaining the ship that's going after Malcolm," she says, her eyes darkening and a little sadness coating her voice over Malcolm's name. It's something bitter and broken, like the rest of us. But it's like wind going through dry corn in a field and it's mesmerizing. She twists her body back, letting go of one of my arms. She gestures to her son. "Come here, Ethan."

Ethan looks up at her and stares into her face. His eyes slide down her to where her hand rests on my bicep. He then looks up at me, confused by his mother's intimate gesture with a man he doesn't recognize; I think, _I'm just as confused as you are, little buddy_. His lips are pursed, wondering. Suddenly, he drops his marker and gets up. Ethan waddles over—in that child-like way, shuffling, head cast down, but still seeing everything somehow and I get that this is Malcolm's nephew—and up to his mother. He wraps his arms about her legs and rests his head against her, always watching.

Madeline turns her head down and looks at him, that look that all mothers get in their eyes when they see their children. She says, "This is Captain Tucker."

He stares at me, little eyes calculating, and I'm enough of a man to say that I'm a little freaked out about that. Ethan mouths the word _Trip_ to himself. Madeline smiles at this, saying, "Yes, Ethan. Captain Trip Tucker." She turns to me. "Malcolm would always tell Ethan about your adventures together. He rather loved them."

It's nice, seeing her smile, but it's still coated with that sad bitterness, and I know that smile because it's the exact same one I use whenever I smile.

"This is my son Ethan," she's saying to me. I really want to ask where the father is but I'm afraid to; mainly because I feel like I'll end up with my foot in my mouth again, and if I keep putting it there I'm going to end up with Athlete's Mouth. Madeline responds to my unasked question with grace and poise; it's as if she knows people want to ask her it all the time. "Ethan's father and I divorced before he was born."

I have the sudden urge to kick the crap out of a man I don't even know and it's obviously displayed on my face as she laughs and tells me, "Don't worry; Malcolm's already given Paul hell for it."

"I can imagine," I tell her. She smiles again, the sad smile, and I know she feels all broken up about Malcolm too. But probably, though, not to the extent that I do because I doubt that she's ever walked out on her brother like I did. I shove the memory down, trying to be a little happy. I know it probably won't work; the happiness, that is. But I have to try and stay clear headed for all that will come.

Ethan's still watching me, I notice, and I bend down, smiling at him.

"Hi," I say.

He blinks.

Madeline sighs.

Ethan turns away from me and goes back to his drawing pad. I turn my head up to look at Madeline. She's staring after her son, sadly, but brightens when she realizes I'm looking at her.

"Cute kid," I say, standing.

"Adorable," she agrees. "But then, he _is_ my son so I am bound to be biased."

"All mamas are," I tell her.

"When's you're meeting?" she asks suddenly.

I glance at the atomic clocks that line the wall. "Soon."

We stand in silence for a while. I shift nervously back and forth, feeling very awkward. Madeline speaks, once again suddenly and not looking at me, "I hope you find him."

"I do too," I tell her. I pause. "After the meetin'," I begin, "would yew and Ethan like to, uh, maybe go out for some lunch? With me?"

She turns her head, sharply, and seems to think for a moment. I'm about to once again open my mouth and just ram my foot down my throat when she says, "Of course. But, I myself have a meeting with the Admirals right after you, so you would have to wait."

"I can wait," I say, quickly. Possibly a little to quickly, but what the hell. She nods, brightly. I ask, "What's yer meetin' 'bout?"

"They're thinking about putting families aboard ships now," she tells me. "But, of course, that would mean they need all different types of assistance for those families then, including teachers." Madeline, if I remember correctly from my conversations with Malcolm, is a third grade math teacher. "So they would like my input on the subject."

"That'd be cool," I say for lack of something, well, cooler.

But it brings a small smile to her face, a genuine one that isn't at all sad, so I kinda figure my making a complete idiot of myself was worth it.

Suddenly, the door of the Admirals' room opens out to us, and an Admiral whose gray hair is shaved into a military crew-cut pops his head out. He looks around twice before seeing me. "We're ready for you know, Mr.—Captain Tucker," he says, swiftly correcting himself on my rank. I nod at him and he slips back into the room. I start to follow him.

Madeline stops me. She stands on the tips of her toes and brushes my hair back from my forehead, smoothing it down. She looks at me, warmly: "You're a soldier again, Mr. Tucker, it's best that you look the part."

"Call me Trip," I say.

"Only if you call me Madeline." She gives me that warm look again, and something in my chest feels oddly free as I go into the Admirals' office for my meeting.


	3. Three: The Man Who Came To Dinner

**Thank You's: **Lt. Black Fire, JacobedRose, JadziaKathryn (Yes, the Gruesome Twosome have been through some stuff, and are considerably more…I don't know, _adult_ about life now than they were when I first introduced them in _Jail Break_. That, of course, is going to throw Trip for a loop as he spends more time with them. And as for a redeeming character, there are two: an admiral you'll be introduced to in this chapter and his niece.), KaliedescopeCat (Trip and Madeline are definitely my answers to Trip and T'Pol, and I really adore them too. And, yes, what happened to my favorite Armory Officers does sort of plan in later, but in a more psychological aspect than anything else.), Tata (You know, there is a very good chance that you'll come to hate me.), and Luna.  
**Note: **For the past week or so, I have become increasingly influenced by James Merrill and several other poets (Auden, Berryman, Whitman, Ginsburg, et cetera); but Merrill especially. I think you'll find that while reading. Also, the place where Trip and the Reed eat is fictional, as I have never been to San Francisco.  
**In Which MS Does a Little Rant for the Good of the Order: **Once upon a time, lyrics were before the beginnings of each chapter. supposedly frowns upon that, but I see people doing it still. So, I figured, I'll just put the lyrics in again. Because, hey—they make sense with the story and I'm not even going to _begin _to think that I even had a little hand in writing them and—_Look_!_—_I credit! And Stephen King does it in his novels, and if Stephen King can do it, so can I, dammit.  
**Let's Play a Game: **And if you get why the title of this part is extremely hilarious to me, you a.) know me and my love of a certain television show (_hint: _that I do not write for) very well, b.) also love the aforementioned show, or c.) are a really lucky guesser. (_Second hint:_ Think politics, second seasons, and Ukrainians. Vague, I know.)

* * *

Three: The Man Who Came To Dinner

_Here, I said,  
__Don't even let this go._

—_Tori Amos, "Graveyard"_

The door opens and the door closes.

In between, I find myself entering into the room of Admirals, this den of lions. They are seven sages, wise, knowledgeable old men with graying beards and balding heads; and then there is Jon. He looks like a child among them: his hair isn't as gray as the others, nor his face as lined with age. But he seems, somehow, harder than the rest. Maybe it is the shape of his jaw or the downward curve of his mouth. Maybe it's in the slight slouch of his shoulders. Or, maybe, it is in his broken earth eyes.

So the door closes, and I am against it, watching, observing these eight men. I look them over; a few I know, like Jon and Admiral Black—who, by the way, seems to have aged rather gracefully, and so has that new pip of his. There are others—the other six—who must be new, replacements. I know Forrest died while we were on mission, and obviously more died or retired while I was in my exile.

The Admiral at the head of the long table is the oldest and his shoulder's are the most weighed down. His eyes are very cold and pale, and his face is lined, deeply. I dislike him immediately. The Admiral who retrieved me sits at his right, looking out and over the others with his back ramrod straight. That's an old military hand if I've ever seen one. The one to the cold Admiral's left has a frown smashed into his face, highlighting absolutely insane eyebrows. _Jeez, man_, I think, _how 'bout yew trim those sukers?_ Another Admiral, sitting opposite from Black, is a mixture of the previous three, and looks rather like he's got a stick up his ass.

And, in especial contrast to the rest of the men, one Admiral, sitting at the end of the table across from Jon, is fairly young, but still seems old (his dark hair is graying at his temples and lines are predominate in his forehead). It's his eyes, I think—they are turned inward, thinking, reflecting. And, yet, they seem to stare out and catch all. He reminds me, vaguely, of Ethan, shuffling. His dark, gray-less mustache and the lines around his mouth—his laugh lines—too, give him difference: they are deeper than the others' mouths and no one else wears a mustache (all the rest have beards or no facial hair). I like him.

"Sit, Captain Tucker," says Admiral Cold.

I do as I'm told and sit down at the end of the table, near Jon and Admiral Mustache. I smile at Jon, and he smiles back. Both of our smiles, I know, are strained and stale. I turn back to Admiral Cold, who is glaring at me. Well, buddy, I don't like yew _neither_.

"I am Admiral Corner," he says, his voice as cold as his eyes. He gestures to Admiral Old Hand: "General Jacobs." Hmm, General, eh? Jacobs nods at me, and Corner points to his right, to Admiral Eyebrows: "Admiral St. Ives."

St. Ives just gives me this dignified look, and I almost burst out laughing. Hey, if a man with eyebrows like _that _gave yew a look as dignified as that, you'd laugh too, okay? Admiral Mustache, at this point, stares across the table at Jon. He twitches his lips, moving his 'stache, and Jon covers his smile with his hand, pretending to cough. Black, next to Mustache, frowns at him but Mustache stares right back at him coolly.

Corner ignores Admiral Mustache and points to Admiral Black: "Admiral Black."

"We've met," I inform him. Corner raises an eyebrow.

"Really?" he says, disinterestedly. He points to Admiral Stick-Up-His-Ass next, saying, "Admiral Vincent." Vincent gives me a little wave of his hand. Must be an Englishman, I think; because he reminds me a little of Malcolm. Corner starts to point to Admiral Mustache, but the man beats him to it.

Mustache leans over to me, smiling easily, and says, a French accent thick in his voice, "I am Lucien Blanche. It is delightful to meet you, _Capitaine_ Tucker."

"Back atcha," I tell him. Mustache—uh, Blanche—grins his easy grin again and I wonder how life hasn't gotten to him, how _Starfleet_ hasn't gotten to him. Corner glares at both of us, before looking at Jon. Blanche winks at me. Corner says of Jon, "And you know Admiral Archer."

I contemplate cracking a joke, but I feel enough like the-man-who-came-to-dinner as it is and I think that I should maybe try to get along well with Corner. I nod.

"Now that the pleasantries are over," starts Corner. "We can get to business."

I shift a little in my chair. This is not going to be a fun conversation. I just hope I don't get all angry and employ those fighting techniques Malcolm taught me. 'Cause it'd get ugly real fast.

Plus, I think, brightening, I've got lunch with Madeline and Ethan later. Gotta stay un-bloodied for them.

_-_

I kind of stumble out of the meeting, tired. My patience was really tested in there—Admiral St. Ives was all for not, you know, going after Malcolm and just leaving him and his crew stranded out there so as not to waste needed resources. Corner, too, seemed a little warmed up to it, but Jacobs, Corner's obvious right hand man, seemed rather upset with it. Blanche leaned over at one point to tell me he was a MACO and a firm believer of 'no man left behind', and so was Blanche, apparently, judging by the color his face turned when he was talking about it.

So, after a while of yelling at each other (both Jon and I stayed out of it; me, because I didn't want to piss anyone off, and Jon, because he's, well, _yew know_), we reached the agreement that I indeed would go after Malcolm. Then they talked about who would be in my crew. I told them about my choices for Armory and Tactical. Vincent got his weird look on his face when I mentioned David, and so I plan on cornering Fritz and ask him what went down all those years ago. They also gave me a list of people I could chose from for the minor positions, seeing as I've already got me senior crew lined up; I just gotta make those phone calls.

Madeline looks up when I enter and she gets a worried look on her face. She starts to stand. "Are you all right, Trip?"

"Headache," I tell her. She nods.

"You think being with the Admirals for a couple hours is bad, try raising a son," she informs me wryly after her nod. I turn my head to look at Ethan, who looked up when I entered. I wink at him. He goes back to drawing. I turn back to Madeline. She's shaking her head.

She looks like she's about to tell me something when Blanche comes out of the office. He smiles brilliantly at both of us and takes Madeline's hand, kissing it. "How are you, my dear?"

"Fine, thank you, Admiral," she says, smiling at him. "Mr. Tucker here invited Ethan and I to lunch after our meeting."

"How wonderful," he says, looking me over. "I trust you'll take good care of our teacher, won't you, Captain?"

"Of course," I tell him. He smiles at me again and turns his attention to Ethan.

"Master Reed!" he calls cheerfully to the boy. Ethan looks up and gives him a dry glance. Blanche laughs heartily. "Good man," he says and Ethan goes back to his coloring. Blanche looks at Madeline again. "We are ready for you, Miss Reed."

"Will you watch Ethan for me?" Madeline asks me before she goes into the office. I smile and nod, and Madeline and Blanche enter the office. I turn to Ethan.

"Well, buddy, s'just yew and me, eh?" I ask. He doesn't look up. I click my tongue. Alright, I think and look around the room. I spy a phone. If Ethan doesn't want to talk to me, I'll just make my phone calls to the rest of the crew I want, while still keeping an eye on him.

_-_

Madeline comes out of the office half an hour later, looking a lot better than I did, I'm sure. I suppose the Admirals toned down their rhetoric for a woman. I'm sitting in the chair next to Ethan, who still hasn't spoken a word to me. (I'm beginning to suspect that he's a mute or just _really_ doesn't like me.) I finished my phone calls and pretty much everyone I wanted agreed to help, because they all knew Malcolm once too and they wanted him back as much as me.

We're all meeting for dinner tonight.

"Where would you like to go?" she asks me, brushing back a piece of errant hair from her forehead.

"I know this little place down by the wharf," I tell her.

"Wonderful," she says. I help her pick up and put away Ethan's things. We leave quickly, before the Admirals exit their office. Madeline holds Ethan's hand and the boy stands between us.

As we walk, Ethan takes my hand, very gently.

_-_

"How'd yer meeting go?" I ask her, buttering a roll. I put it down on Ethan's plate. He looks at it for a moment and then he eats it.

"As it usually goes," she says. "They ask me questions, I answer; they thank me for my input, I leave. Yours?"

"Considerably less polite," I say and leave it at that. We eat silently until Madeline asks, "You met my brother on _Enterprise_, correct?"

"Yep," I say.

"What was he like?" she queries, a soft smile on his face.

"I didn't like him," I say. "At first, course. I thought he was stuck-up, prissy, annoyin', obnoxious, and a whole lotta other unpleasant things." Madeline's smiling more as I continue: "But then we got stuck in the shuttle pod together and we thought everyone else was dead. It changes people, that," I add. "We became partners in crime, afterwards, or so says Admiral Archer, and bar-hoppin' buddies."

"Risa," she says, grinning widely.

"Ah, so Mal _did_ tell yew 'bout our adventures," I say.

"_Mis_adventures, more like," she comments. "And he really didn't tell me. It was Ethan he confided in." She pauses. "I think he was frightened of my judgment."

"Really?" I ask.

"I think," she begins hesitantly, "that he thought I would berate him for what he had done."

"Would've yew?"

"Maybe for letting you go," she says firmly. "But not anything else."

"Lettin' me go?" I parrot.

"I don't know if you've ever known this," Madeline tells me, "but you were the best thing to ever happen to him." I can't form words and her eyes become very sad. "Father always loved me best, both Malcolm and I knew it, and I was always the popular one with the rest of the family too. Malcolm never really met up with the standards of the Reed family and he felt that very acutely. He wanted someone to be proud of him, to respect him for whom he was." She pauses again, and I see that her eyes are glassy. "You were the only person who ever gave him that."

My eyes burn a little after she tells me that. Because, yes, maybe I gave him that, but I also took I away when I left for the _Columbia_.

"He used to speak of you so greatly, too," adds Madeline. "It was always Trip this, Trip that. I always got the feeling that he missed you quite terribly when you left _Enterprise_, and I knew it was true when he got his ship. Because, when we were talking on the phone after he got the information, he asked me if I thought you would have been proud of him."

"I was," I tell her. "But I was too scared to tell him. I've always been too scared to tell him how much _he_ meant to _me_."

She nods, and we don't say anything else for a while, both of us trying to regain loose grips on our emotions. _I_ should have never let _him_ go, I think. _I_ should have never left. I was such an idiot.

"Why doesn't Ethan speak?" I ask Madeline after a few minutes. She looks up at me from her salad, startled.

"Oh," she says. "You noticed."

I nod, glancing over at the child. He seems to be staring at my lunch quite determinedly. I arch an eyebrow at him, but he doesn't notice.

"He's five," she notes, "and he rarely says anything, except for one sentence. I took him to a lot of doctors, trying to find why he wouldn't say anything else." She pauses. "We fear he might be autistic."

"Did yew ever take him to Doctor Phlox?"

"Malcolm suggested that too," she says. "And Phlox himself said he'd like to look Ethan over, but he is never on Earth long enough to see him."

"He's in today," I tell her.

"Really?"

"Yep," I say. "I found out earlier when I asked him to be the medical officer on the rescue." I pause. "We're havin' a dinner tonight for the rest of the crew I tapped. He's gonna be there. Yew should come."

"I would love to," she says, smiling.

Ethan, who's still staring at my plate, suddenly reaches out. He grabs the cookie that's sitting there, telling me in a very small English accent, "I need this."

It startles a laugh out of me and he stares at me with his big eyes over the cookie, which he promptly shoved in his mouth. I start laughing even harder at this, and at Madeline's stern look at her son. He just stares back at her.

It's the first real laugh I've had in a very long time.

_-_

We all decided to meet for dinner at a hotel and the staff has let us have free reign of the area.

Everyone's come. Fritz and David are there, mixing and serving drinks at the bar and I'm not at all ashamed to say that I don't think I'll be drinking tonight; Travis, who's a lieutenant now, is telling a story to them as they work. Jon is holding court with a bunch of my new crew, telling stories of the old days like Travis. Phlox is playing with Ethan and Madeline stands by, speaking with the doctor. I, myself, stand in the corner, talking to Hoshi, also a lieutenant, and her husband, Noah, who's not Starfleet but a linguist like Hoshi.

I catch Jon's eye and he falters, before smiling at the group and continuing.

We'll talk later.

"So you're doing well?" asks Hoshi.

"Yeah," I say. "I was teachin' up in Connecticut."

"What did you teach?" Noah questions. I like Noah, personally. He seems like a nice guy. Very affable.

"Physics," I tell him.

"I wanted to be a physics professor for a while once," Noah says thoughtfully. Hoshi rolls her eyes at me.

"What stopped yew?" I ask.

"Never studied physics," he informs me. I smile.

"Those college physics departments are real demandin' these days." We all laugh. I ask, "How'd y'all meet?"

"I was teaching in Brazil again," begins Hoshi; "and Noah was the translator at a hospital there. So, one day, I manage to slice the tip of my finger while cooking. It was bleeding pretty badly, so I went to the hospital and by the time I got there, it hurt something awful and I was cursing in a rare dialect and I couldn't bring myself to speak English. Noah got called in and the rest was history, as they say."

"Don't listen to her," Noah says. "She cut the best bit out. I was trying to calm her down and she slapped me across the face and broke my nose. I had to have her. So, on our adjacent beds, I kept hitting on her. She threatened to break my jaw next." He grins. "I wore her down."

"But not before I broke two of his fingers," adds Hoshi, an evil little grin on her face and a slightly mental glint in her eyes. I laugh again. Hoshi asks, "Anyone special in your life, Captain?"

"Nope," I say. My eyes flicker briefly over to Madeline, though, and Hoshi catches it. She sees who I'm looking at, and turns back to me, grinning.

"Madeline Reed?" she says. "Really?"

I spend the next five minutes denying it quite fervently.

"I think you two would be wonderful together," says Hoshi for the millionth time. Noah has been standing quietly the whole time, smiling to himself. I tried several times to get him to rescue me—the whole brotherhood thing, yew know?—but he didn't.

"Oh, leave me alone," I say, waving a hand at her. I point to Noah. "And _yew_—yew betrayed the brotherhood!"

"Technically," he says, "I did no such thing, as I'm neither helping you nor siding with the wife."

"Might as well be," I grouse. I look at my watch. "I gotta go do a speech."

"About what we're going to be doing?" asks Hoshi.

"Yep," I reply. I look at Noah. "Yew gonna be comin'?"

"If you'll have me, Captain," he says. "I've met Malcolm a few times—he came to our wedding—and I hate to think of him out there. I'd like to help."

"Sure," I nod. I turn away from them and start through the crowd. I was invited to their wedding, too; I didn't go.

People clap me on my back as I go through them. _"Good to have you back, sir….Nice to see you in uniform again….We'll find him, Captain…. We'll bring him home…."_ I smile at them, weakly, strained, and mount a table, hitting a glass with a fork to get their attention.

When everyone quiets down, I begin.

"As some of yew may know, Captain Malcolm Reed and his crew went missin' a week ago…"

_-_

The group is considerably more subdued when I finish.

_-_

It's about twenty-three-hundred and we're starting to disperse.

"We'll get him back," says Hoshi as she leaves, kissing my cheek. "We just have to."

"Yeah," I agree. I shake hands with Noah and continue the goodbyes with everyone else.

_-_

As I walk back to the temporary housing assigned to me from dinner, Jon jogs to my side and slows down to a walk. I don't look at him and he doesn't look at me.

"Sorry about earlier, about St. Ives," he says after a moment.

I want to snap at him, asking him why the hell he didn't stand up for Malcolm in there, because he, of all people, should know how much Malcolm has meant to this place. Instead, I just nod and say nothing else. Getting mad at him won't help me any. We go quiet again and we don't speak until we reach the front porch of the house.

He turns and stares at me, his eyes shadowed in the fading light of day. "Bring him home."

"I had no intention of doin' otherwise," I tell him.

Jon presses his lips together for a moment and then smiles a little. He hops down the porch steps and starts to walk away. I watch him, my hand resting absently on the doorknob. He turns abruptly and says, "He never forgave me, you know."

"For what?" I ask when my curiosity gets the better of me.

He smiles again, bitterly. "A lot of things."

I blink and he turns away once more, his hands shoved deeply in his pockets and whistling a little to himself, and disappears into the night.


	4. Four: Office Gossip

**Thank You's: **Seriously, people. Big head over here.JadziaKathryn (I adore Ethan as well—he's actually based off of one of my closest friends. Yeah, I felt bad about making Trip not go to Hoshi's wedding, but he was afraid of seeing Malcolm, y'know? This part, you'll find out a little of what Malcolm never forgave Jon for. And, yes, Trip's alive, because, obviously, I take care of our boys better. Well, a little bit better.), Midnight Dove (Yes, Maddy lovers unite! And, hopefully, I will be writing more _House _fic. Wilson-centered, of course.), Gabi2305, Tata (I don't know if you can classify what I'm about to do as _small_…), Jaws, RoaringMice, and a very special thank you to reader1, who corrected my Bowie-Springsteen mistake, 'cause I'm an idiot.  
**Note the First:** This chapter is all about the past, with more dialogue than anything. Some of you wanted to know what the Nazer'teh Incident was and I have obliged. This will help you understand the changes in David and Fritz, as well as part of what happened to Malcolm (whose activities during the Missing Years, for the most part, will stay rather vague and mysterious for the rest of the story) to change him.  
**Note the Second:** For a little help imagining Fritz's voice, think the guy who played Rochefort (Does Michael Wincott not have the craziest voice, you know, ever?) in the Disney's version of _The Three Musketeers_, with a hint of English and German.

Four: Office Gossip

_But nothing's unforgiven in  
__The four corners of hell._

—_Flogging Molly_

I key the door to Fritz's quarters open—it's good to be captain—and enter. The room is fairly large (the ships have gotten larger and crew quarters more roomy) and the air feels warm and moist from the shower being run in the head. I look around, briefly. We're not going to be on the ship long, a month at the very most, so no one really brought any personal items. Fritz though has a picture resting on his work station, one of Malcolm and David and himself. I can tell it's fairly old, a few months after I left, because Malcolm's a commander and the Gruesome Twosome are lieutenants.

Something crashes in the shower and Fritz swears loudly in German. I try to ignore the roughness in his voice.

"Hey, Commander," I call out. There's a pause.

"Captain?" comes Fritz's voice.

"I wanted to talk with yew," I tell him. Really, I want to know what happened to him and David and, most of all, Malcolm. Naturally, I'm curious as to why they seem so much more adult than before: they're certainly not the Lego lovin' lunatics I once knew. God only knows what has become of Malcolm through what happened.

"I'll be out soon," he calls back. I nod to myself and sit down at his desk.

It's been two days since the dinner and most of the crew has come aboard, getting their departments ready. The ship we were given is an old version, something between the new _Daedalus _classes and the old NX-01's class, so it's not as big as the _Avenger_ is but still bigger than the _Enterprise_. I sigh, moving a little. We embark for the rescue in a day.

Fritz exits his bathroom, a towel wrapped about his waist and drying his hair with another, and a billow of shower smoke follows him out. The scar on his neck stands out in high white resolution against his shower reddened skin. He nods a greeting to me and goes to his closest, pulling out a pair of cotton pants and slipping them on with no regard for me. Fritz, I recall from my time on Enterprise, has always been a very open person. He turns around and sits on his bed, still rubbing at his head with the towel.

"What can I do for you, sir?" asks Fritz. I manage not to cringe visibly at his voice, but he notices my discomfort at it. He grins, wryly. "It's okay, Captain, no matter what David says. I understand that I sound much different than what you remember and that it's going to take time for everyone to get used to it." He pauses. "It's okay to _not_ be okay with it."

"It _is_ weird," I admit.

"Try having it as _your_ voice," he notes. Fritz drops the towel down, apparently satisfied with his damp hair. It sticks up awkwardly in various places and he tries to calm it down with his hands. "What was it that you needed, sir?"

Again, I sigh and shift. "I wondered if yew could tell me what happened to the three of you."

"Ah," says Fritz, a sage look in his half-lidded eyes as he stares at me. "Well. That may take some time."

"I've got time," I reply.

He nods and his eyes turn far away from me. "It will take some time because, unlike most believe, it didn't start right before their capture and torture, as well as my eventual joining with them. It started a very long time ago, back when we were children and none of this had happened, or could have even been imagined to matter at all to us. And it," Fritz notes hesitantly, "it really didn't start with Malcolm or I as children. I suppose—it began—with David." He nods again, more to himself than to me. "Yes, it all began with David."

Fritz shifts on the bed, making himself more comfortable. He leans against the wall, resting his head there, and poses a question to the room, "Did you ever notice David's ability to pick things up very quickly—faster than most?"

I nod. That ability was quite an asset to us in Engineering when we had just been attacked and were short staffed. I look at Fritz, a little confused, wondering where this was going—I had always thought David was just a naturally intelligent man. (His multiple degrees from Harvard were certainly evidence of it.)

"Then," Fritz is saying; "it'll come as a big surprise to you that David was born autistic."

I, personally, feel that almost falling out of my chair is quite justified.

The German officer laughs, a light, bitter noise that sort of grates against my ears. "Yes, I had just about the same reaction. Then again, I was also confined to a bed as I had just had my vocal cords practically ripped from my throat."

"Lovely image," I comment.

"So Malcolm tells me," rejoins Fritz. He continues: "Back to the beginning. David was born autistic and—did you know that his family were all circus folk? As was he, and that is important—and his parents really couldn't deal with the fact that there son was, oh I don't know, _damaged_, I suppose. Anyway, they took him to a doctor that was willing to perform certain procedures that are frowned upon by the rest of decent society." He smiles again, that thin cutting smile. "David's words, not mine, mind you. I have the more quaint vocabulary of the two of us, or so I'm told, but I digress. David had this procedure performed on him and, miraculously, he was normal, with everyone none the wiser—including David himself."

"David's genetically modified," I say as clarity comes to me. "That's why David was regulated ta Research, and that's why Vincent got all funny when I suggested puttin' him as one of my senior staff."

"You're getting ahead of the story, sir." Fritz rises then and grabs a glass off his desk, filling and then draining it and filling it again, before returning to his seat. He holds the glass. "He was told on his fifteenth birthday, I believe it was, of what had been done to him. And that, sir, is the story of David."

"This plays in how?" I ask, a little impatient. Fritz tips his glass towards me.

"For that," he says, "we'll have to skip a bit. Fast-forward ten or so years. David is a junior grade lieutenant aboard _Enterprise_, and, along with his trusty best friend"—he tips the glass towards himself now with a smile—"me, he's trying to help his commanding officer out of the grief of losing his best friend. That's you," he adds, a little sarcastic.

It's justified, I'll admit, but _grief_? I suppose my leaving hurt him as much as it hurt me.

Fritz is still speaking. "So David gets it into his fool head that he and the Boss will go down to a planet and do some odd bonding thing. I never understood it personally," Fritz tells me. "But then I never had brothers to test these things on."

"So they go to the planet," I prompt.

"Ah, yes—the _planet_." Fritz says the word in a philosophical way that I found somewhat disturbin', what with his rough and metallic voice. "They go down, do surveys, and I suppose get some of their bonding in before their capture by the alien." He pauses. "I don't know, exactly, what they went through. For that, you'd have to ask David or Malcolm—and even then they both claim they don't remember much. Anyway. They were captured by this alien—Nazer'teh—and tortured. David got his hand chopped off at one point"—I cringe on the younger man's behalf—"and the Boss, I'm told, went a little nutters under a solitary confinement.

"Meanwhile, back on _Enterprise_, I'm freaking out. My best friends have been captured and the Captain has been put under orders not to go down into the hostile territory—the supervision of Vulcans who have met this species," he adds, disgusted. "Turns out, I don't follow orders well."

I can't help myself—I smile. "Yew didn't."

He grins back, faintly. I can tell his too far back in the memories to let an actual one out. "I did. I shanghaied a shuttle pod and speeded off to the rescue. And it turns out that I really didn't think that through. I got captured myself." He pauses again, and when he starts up again, his voice is slightly higher and very quick. "I was pulled into their cell by Nazer'teh and all I really remember was just seeing the two of them there, huddled in the corner. Dave was holding onto Malcolm so tightly…I don't even remember the words spoken by the alien. It was just—the words were in the air and suddenly I couldn't breathe. I was on the ground, and gripping my throat, and, God, I couldn't breathe."

His breath is coming in short little bursts and I reach out a hand to him, feeling something for him in his panic. It's something I remember seeing in Malcolm all those years ago on the ice planet and I don't know if it has always been Malcolm's trait and it's rubbed off on Fritz or the other way around. All I know is that it's enough to draw me and think that I'm talking with a little bit of Malcolm.

Fritz shakes me off, gently, and continues on: "I don't remember much else, just a brief flash of Malcolm suddenly standing and then him dragging me at his side. I don't know where Dave was when that was happening, but he was at my side in the shuttle pod, holding my bleeding neck." He blows out a quick breath. "Everything's a blank from there, something I'm rather grateful for; I'm told the surgery was long and painful, nearly as bad as David's. I woke up a week later, voiceless, and in an indescribable amount of pain. David was one bed to my left and Malcolm was sitting on a chair between us." Another pause, and Fritz takes a drink. "The next few months were a blur—I was rather high on pain relievers—but I remember being with the Boss and David most of the time. We were promoted shortly after."

"Why were yew two regulated to Research?" I ask. Fritz nods absently.

"It was found out that David was genetically altered, illegally, when they were replacing his hand," Fritz says. "Admiral Archer was duty bound to report it, though he didn't want to and he put it off as long as he could, about six months in fact. The brass didn't take it very well, and they were going to discharge David. I don't know who, but some people stepped in on his behalf and both Malcolm and I threatened to resign ourselves. David was sent to research then, and Malcolm and I were given new assignments, away from _Enterprise_ and each other. After a while, I got sick of working on the ship with people I didn't know, nor who knew what happened to me and why I talked so oddly, and I requested to be transferred to Research, with Dave. So that's what became of us while you were in your self-imposed exile.

"And the rest," he adds, "as they say, is history."

"Thanks," I tell him, "for tellin' me this."

"You're my captain now, Captain," he says. "And maybe you can help us finally get over it all."

I nod, not knowing what else to say. My curiosity has been, well, sated and I know what happened to them and why they are the men they are but I can't even begin to imagine what happened to them down there, or even why someone would want to do that. I doubt that even they actually know why it happened to them, and I suppose that must be very painful for them. What I can imagine, though, is why they have never fully gotten over, come to grips, with what was done to them, why they were used like they were. That—_that_ I can totally get on board with.

We sit in silence for a moment, each thinking out own thoughts: me with what had happened to them and what has happened to me and how there are some parallels in that; Fritz…Fritz's thoughts I can't even begin to understand. He has always been an enigma to me, much like Malcolm: their faces cannot be read.

I hated playing poker with them. They always took all my money.

"Jon said the weirdest thing to me last night." I don't know exactly why I said that; it just popped out. But Fritz doesn't appear to mind; he just looks at me, his eyes level and unreadable.

"It's been my experience that Admiral Archer usually says weird things," he notes. "Could this possibly end up being weirder than the gazelle spiel?"

"Nothin's weirder than the gazelle spiel," I quip. Fritz chuckles into his glass, and I get back on topic. "It's got potential to be weirder. But, anyway—Jon came up to me before I got to the house and just casually told me that Malcolm had 'never forgiven' him for somethin'. I asked what, and Jon just smiled kinda sad and said, _Lots of things_."

"Ah," says Fritz, his voice philosophical again. "I may be able to shed a little light on this, too."

"Really," I say.

Fritz gives me a little nod of his head, saying, "Don't you know I'm like God?" We both chuckle again and Fritz adds, in caution, "And when I say little, I mean _minute_."

"A little goes a long way," I say. Fritz spares a moment to roll his eyes at the cliché.

"I remember, before Malcolm and I got reassigned when we were a commander and a lieutenant, overhearing a conversation between the Admiral and Malcolm, though the Admiral was a captain then."

"Yew 'overheard'?" I say. "Are yew just tryin' to avoid sayin' yew eavesdropped?"

"Like I'd ever tell you," he informs me. "Plus, God doesn't eavesdrop. That's wrong. And don't interrupt! Anyhow, I _heard_ them talking." He emphasizes 'heard' and gives me a look.

I hold up my hands. "I didn't say anythin'."

"You were thinking it. Again, anyhow, I don't know what exactly they were talking about, though I have my suspicions that it was you, my dear Captain," he adds. I can't tell if he's mocking me or not; I think he is. "They were about to leave and the Admiral said something that went along the lines of 'You never forgave me'. Malcolm looked at him and replied, 'No, Jon, I never did'. Because he called him Jon then; most of the old senior crew did."

I nod, wondering if it was me they were indeed talking about, or if it was Jon giving up David to Starfleet, or if it was him sending the both of them down there and letting Fritz come after them. Or maybe it's just all the things that Jon had failed to protect his crew from, even though he tried his damnedest and would have walked through fire for us. That, I think, is something Malcolm had forgotten as time moved on. I know I did and it took me years to realize it again: that Jon would have given anything if it meant keeping us safe and that it was just all those old men in cushy chairs that had never been out in space that sent us to our many deaths.

It was too late then, and I suppose it's too late now.

"I hope I was able to answer your questions," Fritz tells me, breaking into my thoughts.

"Yes, yew were," I tell him. I rise and so does Fritz. "How 'bout yew and David join me for dinner in the Captain's Mess?"

Now, that's something I never thought I'd ever say again.

"Sure," says Fritz. "I'll tell Dave."

We nod at each other and, as I leave Fritz's quarters, I imagine that I can almost hear it, the conversation that Fritz overheard all those years ago. Jon's voice would be warm and compassionate and still sad and repentant. Malcolm's would be cold and matter-of-fact.

"_You never forgave me."_

"_No, Jon, I never did."_

I can feel the ghosts of the men we were in this room with the imagined words. I can feel the captain, the commander, and the lieutenant with spirit fingers wrapping around my biceps and choking my throat. I can feel the whispers of the way it was before, before all this happened. I can feel the fear, the anger, the hate. I can feel the sadness, the bitterness, and the absence of hope. I can feel their specters, the ghosts of the people we were.

It hurts me in a way I never imagined.


	5. Five: Wake Up

**Thank You's: **RoaringMice (The importance of the circus folk is more of a subtle, read-between-the-lines thing. I envisioned David's family as not being able to handle a damaged son because they were all so athletic and special, and David, being born autistic, really didn't measure up to what they were. And what kind of future story are we talking about, here?), liz (Thank you! I'm very fond of Fritz and David, and Ethan, and Trip and Madeline together. And Trip/T'Pol always bugged me, too.), Tata, JadziaKathryn, volley, and Jaws.  
**Note the First:** Sorry about the long wait for the last chapter; it was a bitch to write. But this one came a little easier, mainly because I rediscovered my love of Coldplay through their new album, _X&Y_. And I had a lot of fun writing one of the sections; maybe a little too much fun, actually. This one is also kind of short, but when you read it, you'll understand why. The next part, you'll be glad to know, actually as a fairly sizable chunk of it written (about a fourth). I'm going to the Ann Arbor Art Show on the 19th so the next update won't be until after I'm back, but hopefully I'll find inspiration in the art there and find time to write in my hotel room.  
**Note the Second:** Something that amused me: In the middle of writing this section, I went to the grocery store with my mother. As I was walking past the frozen foods section, I saw a man who looked freakishly like Connor Trinneer; seriously, I had to do an honest-to-God double take as I walked by him. The kicker? He had a little brown haired boy at his side.

Five: Wake Up

_Oh brother I can't, I can't get through  
__I've been trying hard to reach you 'cause I don't know what to do  
__Oh brother I can't believe it's true  
__I'm so scared about the future and I wanna talk to you_

—_Coldplay, "Talk" _

Sleep eludes me.

And I'm tryin' very hard, dammit: I just can't seem to fall asleep. Maybe it's because I can imagine what's waiting for me in the Land of Nod: Him. He. His face. My old friend. My brother. _Malcolm_. I know he's waiting for me, against the back of my eyelids. A part of me says, yes, go to sleep and see him, talk to him. Another part is screaming at me: _Don't you dare! Don't you dare!_ Don't close your eyes, Trip Tucker, don't you dare.

Because that's the part of me that remembers not all of my memories are happy, that it may not even be a memory—it could be something my mind creates. Like the Dream.

Yes, the Dream has been magnified to epic proportions and capital letters, thank you very much. It's just—more than ever, lately, I keep dreaming of him next to me, lying on the icy pond; him dying, me screaming. I came to terms with parts of it, years ago, but my mind has seen fit to keep changing little things about it. Sometimes, we're on the pond; sometimes, we're on the beach; sometimes, we're on _Enterprise_. Sometimes; I can move, go to him, hold him.

Malcolm always dies.

_-_

"You look like hell, Captain," remarks David Webster over coffee in the Mess.

"Thanks." I grab a cup for myself and sit next to him: I don't like the Captain's Mess. It's too empty. "Are we makin' any progress?"

"Some," he says. "A little more than what we were at when you last asked, oh, twenty minutes ago on the Bridge."

I open my mouth to ask how exactly he knows this, as he has been asleep in his quarters until his shift starts at oh-six-hundred—which was ten minutes ago—but he cuts me off, lazily putting sugar into his coffee, "Fritz tells me things."

"Traitor," I mutter. David smiles lightly and pours a healthy—though I imagine Phlox would say differently—amount of sugar into my cup for me. I look at him.

"You looked like you could use it," he explains. We sit in silence and he downs his cup. He gets up and looks at me: "I've got to get back to work." He pauses. "You should get some rest, sir, before Fritz, as your SIC, has to clobber you in the head in order to get you to sleep."

"It's not like I'm _not_ tryin'," I growl to myself, in a low voice, as he walks away. David, though, has excellent hearing.

"First sign of madness, sir," he calls over his shoulder; "talking to yourself."

"At least _I _listen," I say, not bothering to say it softly. David chuckles.

_-_

_**Captain's Log**_

_It's our fourth day out in space. We still haven't found any trace of _Avenger_ or the ship that attacked them, but we aren't about to lose hope. The crew has faith that we will find them, and so do I. As for the crew, I'm finding more and more that I did the right thing in choosing these people. Fritz Schlosser was a great choice for my number two, as was he (along with David Webster) a good choice for the Armory positions. Travis Mayweather is, once again, proving to be an excellent pilot and navigator. Hoshi Sato-Lyman is still an extremely capable linguist, as is her husband, Noah._

_On a more personal note, I'm having a little trouble getting back into the swing of a command position; but I think being back out here is helping. Space, really, doesn't change, like people, and I find some comfort in that._

_Yet, however much comfort in it I am getting, I am having difficulties falling asleep—or even getting to sleep._

_PAUSE_

_But I endeavor to—_

_PAUSE_

_Computer, switch to personal log._

_SWITCHING TO PERSONAL LOG_

_I'm worried about what I will find on that ship, on _Avenger_. I fear that I won't be able to make amends with Malcolm, like I wanted to. I fell like something has passed me by, a chance to make it right. Now, I've only got a chance to make it real, to face the conflict we left between us. I wonder if we'll fight over it. That was what we always did best. Sigh God. What if I can't do it? What if I can't face him?_

_PAUSE_

_I miss him._

_PAUSE_

_Computer, go back to captain's log._

_RETURNING TO CAPTAIN'S LOG_

_I endeavor to do my best and find _Avenger_. That's all I can do._

_-_

Leaning over the rails, I stare down at the Warp Engine. Being back in Engineering, next to the thrum of the engine, next to all the workers—people I've worked with before, some I haven't—I feel like I've come home. I want to jump down there and grab a wrench and just start to work. While that would help _me_, make me feel more useful and maybe I could just forget a little, it would also make me look a little weird to the engineers I've brought along.

"Hey Captain," says a voice to my left. I jump a little, startled. Mike Rostov—now a Commander—smiles at me. He's my Chief here, and I'm glad I've got him here. I brought in as much of the people I knew back then, people who knew Malcolm, as I could.

"Rostov," I say. "Gotten down the sneakin', eh?"

"Helps me come up on the slackers," he tells me.

"Yew learn well grasshopper." We bow to each other, jokingly: I used to do that to him when we were on _Enterprise_. And, again, I'm glad I've brought in all these people I know—it definitely feels like I've come home to all these people.

Now, only if Malcolm was here and I could get some _goddamn sleep_…

"Hey," Rostov says suddenly after a moment of silence. "Have you met my second?"

I shake my head negatively. I was only in charge of grabbing up my senior staff; I let them chose their underlings. Though I did have final say.

"She's great," Rostov's saying. "Educated at Cambridge and the Sorbonne and all those places, you know? I mean, she could kill me with her brain. And wait 'til you see her _hair_."

As he calls to his second, I've got to admit I'm a little scared. What's with her hair?

We wait a moment and suddenly a petit, pale faced imp of a lieutenant bounds up the stairs. Her hair, I see, cropped against her chin, is coal black. Until, of course, it melds halfway into Crayola crayon blue. Her eyes are very bright and very dark. She smiles at me.

"_Bonjour, Captaine_."

I abruptly recall what Rostov addressed her as and I make the connection.

"Yew're related to Admiral Blanche," I blurt. Open mouth, insert foot: It's a process I've quite gotten used to. The Lieutenant Blanche rolls her eyes.

"_Oui_," she says. "He is my uncle."

"Yew don't look like him," I say. In my head, I chant, _I feel like an ass. I feel like an ass._ This is all because I haven't been getting enough sleep, you know. I develop, I've discovered, Tourettes when I haven't slept in a while. The filter just dies, understand, and I can't do a damn thing about it. Malcolm used to make fun of me for it.

We're all staring at each other, an awkward (for me at least) silence over us. Rostov is positively giggling under his breath while Blanche stares at me bemusedly. For my part, I'm looking at both of them in a kind of wild confusion and embarrassment.

Suddenly, someone calls out for Rostov and Blanche's help. They bid me a farewell and run off to work.

"Oh, thank God," I breathe when they're gone, leaning against the rail once more. Engines I can do. First impressions? Not so much. I stay there for a moment, watching the comings and goings of my engineers and listening once again to the engine. I turn away after a moment and leave. I need to try and get some rest.

_-_

Fritz Schlosser in kill mode is a very frightening thing. He puts his hands on his hips, frowns severely, and does this glare thing that he's whipped into perfection. And each word he uses had been perfectly sharpened into a lethal weapon.

"I believe I quite told you that it would be in your best interest to get some rest, Captain, lest you pass out on the bridge."

See that body on the floor? That's me. Dead.

It's day six of our search (no new updates; still nothing, though Travis says we've got a weak Warp signature that could belong to _Avenger_) and Fritz has cornered me in the Mess. I have still not been able to sleep and, just yesterday evening, he told me to go to my quarters and try and get some sleep and _do not_ come out until I had no circles under my eyes. I protested. He threatened mutiny. I went to my quarters.

The man served under Malcolm for nigh on five years, people, it's not like he ain't prepared to do it.

I went to my quarters, giving him control of the ship. I was reasonably certain he wouldn't crash it into anything; that's David's prerogative. But in my quarters, I couldn't get any sleep. So, this morning, I snuck out (feeling like a teenager out after curfew) and went to get some espresso.

To my dismay, I have been found out. Someone must have tattled on me. Probably Hoshi. Mother hen. I shall reap my revenge someday—I've almost got Noah on my side.

"What ever am I to do with you, sir, if you fail to get any rest? Perhaps I'll have to enlist Phlox." Fritz Schlosser: He has two settings—_Sweet Little Boy with Lego's_ and _Death Ray_. "You know it isn't good for you to skip over sleep. What would happen to our mission? And what would Malcolm think?"

Okay, now that was a low blow, Mr. Schlosser.

"He shan't be pleased, methinks."

"I think yew've made yer point," I growl, clutching my drink. He raises one sculpted eyebrow. _Does he get those done?_ I wonder. _What a girl._

"Then give me the espresso." He holds out his hand. I pull it closer. Fritz sighs, a weird noise considering the state of his vocal cords. "Do not make me forcibly remove it from your person. Because I will tackle you to the ground and show no mercy, Captain of this vessel or no."

Eyes downcast, I push it over to him. He would do it, after all, and I like my arms right where they are, thank yew. Despite all this, I still think I made a good choice for Second-in-Command. While I'm thinking, Fritz is picking up the cup. He favors me with a bright smile.

"Good choice, sir," he says, hiding it behind his back. With his free hand, he waves in the general direction of my quarters. "And, now, to bed with you."

I grumble at him as I stand. Mainly derogatory things about his parentage, casting aspirations on the legitimacy of his birth. He laughs gleefully and I am reminded that this man hangs out with David Webster on a regular basis. And that they regularly amuse themselves by trying to out do one another when creating some definitely questionable and, without a doubt, most creative stringing together of vulgar words and/or phrases. I remember walking into one of their insult trading sessions. I heard one of the insults and got the hell out of there. Freaks, the lot of them.

"Twisted bastard," I grumble.

"Not nearly on par, but a good start," Fritz shoots back.

I flip him the bird over my shoulder and shuffle out.

As I go, I hear him giggle to himself: "How gauche."

_-_

In my quarters, I collapse on my bed and remember.

_-_

"_Hallo the guard," I called, slipping beneath the bench. Malcolm looked over at me, amused._

"_That was clever of you," he noted._

"_I like ta give the impression," I replied. We shifted enough so that he can keep working and that I could then get a look at what he's doing. I was still at a little of a loss as to what it is, so I asked, "What'cha doin'?"_

"_Upgrading the weapons system," he said simply._

"_Malcolm, yew have to imagine my utter surprise," I told him dryly._

_He glanced at me from out of the corner of his eyes. He didn't look particularly amused anymore. "Aren't you afraid, Mr. Tucker, that one day I am just going to kick your ass like it's never been kicked before?"_

"_I'm reasonably confident that I could out run yew." Malcolm raised an eyebrow, I amended, sheepishly, "At least for a couple a decks or so, and _then _yew'd catch me and kick my ass."_

"_Damn straight," he said. "Hand me that wrench."_

_I gave it to him and we sat there working in silence for a long time. After a moment, Malcolm said softly, "I won't kick your ass unless you really piss me off."_

"_So if I, say, broke your sister's heart," I said, jokingly, "how bad of an ass kickin' would I get?"_

"_I would beat your head in," he said without a beat._

_I smiled: "And yer heart?"_

"_I doubt you have the stamina," he said airily. We grinned and kept working._

_-_

I lean my head against the wall, sighing.

I think I had the stamina after all.

_-_

_Madeline,_

_How are you? And Ethan? I hope you're both doing well. It's our seventh day out here, and we've recently picked up a fairly strong Warp trail. Two of them, actually. We hope one of them belongs to _Avenger_, but we're all still pretty reluctant to put anything down on paper as certain. I just thought you might like to know that we've, well, got hope._

_The ship's doing fine; so is the crew. Though Fritz Schlosser has turned out to be a real slave driver. Gives me orders and everything. He's says it's in my best interest to listen to him and do as he says but—_

_Don't listen to him! This is the aforementioned slave driver, by the way. Captain Tucker just being terribly whiny. He hasn't been sleeping very well, you know. I'm just trying to help. Well, I've got to go before I get court-martialed (Lord knows he's threatened to do so enough times, but, honestly, it's in his best interest and I doubt he would really follow through). Tell Ethan I said 'Hello'. Hope you're doing well. Cheers, F. Schlosser._

—_Hey, it's Trip. How'd you like that? Little sneaky German was reading over my shoulder and he just steals the pen! Didn't even ask. How rude. Anyway._

_On a completely different note, I have found out that the niece of Admiral Blanche is serving in Engineering. How's that for a coincidence. She's a nice girl, kind of odd. I think Schlosser may have a bit of a crush on her. Maybe it's the blue hair. (Seriously! The girl's got blue hair!)_

_Well, I've got to go. I am running a starship, after all._

_Sincerely,_

_Trip Tucker_

_P.S._

_I _will_ find him._

_-_

In the Mess, David and Fritz talk tactics and Lego's and what drinks they'll buy Malcolm and his crew when we find them; Fritz steals glances at the blue and black haired Blanche at the next table. I walk in and sit next to them. David greets me warmly, Fritz distracted.

"Our little Fritz has started to notice girls," David tells me, whispering.

"How sweet," I say. But I'm happy, and I know David's happy for him too. Something good should come from this voyage, because normally nothing does. I know that, they know that.

Malcolm knew—knows, because he can't be dead, he must be alive, because I would know, just like I knew in the dream—this.

_-_

The bell to my quarters rings again and again and again…

"Go the hell away!" I yell, muffled by my pillow and sleep. I just fell asleep, no dreams, and some jackass comes to wake me up. _I'll kill this bastard_, I think.

The bell rings again and David, sounding singularly upset, screams through the door: "Sir! You're needed on the bridge!"

I burrow my face in the pillow, throwing a rude hand gesture at the shut door. Screw David—I need my sleep and I'm going to get it, dammit! I sigh contentedly. I _knew_ staying awake for a long time would eventually drive the dreams away.

Short and long rings in Morse code, musically patterns of them, and more rings in Morse code ring through my quarters. I growl, rolling over. David's just being an ass now, trying to get me awake. I sit up and go to the door, bending to the little bastard's will. I open the door.

"They've found the ship."


	6. Six: Bethlehem

**Thank You's: **RoaringMice, JadziaKathryn, Jaws (Yep, definite action; and Fritz and David will even be blowing some stuff up later!), Tata (_Hate_ is a very strong word…), Queen of Fairyland, and Exploded Pen.  
**Note: **And now we've reached the climactic part of our story. This has been a long time coming—in fact, the last section of this part was the first thing I ever wrote for this; so, really, everything has been leading up to this one moment. Though, truly, we aren't finished yet; there are still several plot lines to be resolved (Trip and Madeline, anyone?). But it's gonna be a downhill ride from here on in.  
**Warning:** I drop the _F-bomb_ several times in this part. I thought it appropriate, okay?  
**Let's Play a Game:** In this section, find the bastardized quote from _Legends of the Fall_.

Six: Bethlehem 

_What can I tell you, my brother, my killer,  
__What can I possibly say?  
__I guess that I miss you; I guess I forgive you,  
__I'm glad that you stood in my way.  
_  
—_Leonard Cohen, "Famous Blue Raincoat"_

"_They've found the ship_!" David repeats, frantic, his voice high. "C'mon."

I stare at him. "What ship?"

"I swear to God, sir," says David.

I blink. Satellites link up in my mind and old video footage plays back against my eyes. _That_ ship. _Avenger_. Oh, fuck. I rush out, post-haste, bumping his shoulders and yelling out, "Don't dawdle, Commander!"

"About time," he grumbles and runs after me, to the bridge.

We burst through the door, one after another, into a hectic situation. Fritz is rushing around to all the different stations, and Hoshi and Noah are grappling with the communications unit. David goes to the tactical station and I join Fritz where he's currently standing with my head of science, Commander Gillian Winters. They both turn to me.

"We're sure?" I ask.

"Reasonably," says Winters, hear head bent over her station.

"Reasonably?" I repeat.

Fritz fields the question: "Well, there's some scientific mumbo-jumbo involved that even _I_ don't understand, but the jist of it is that the alien ship is emitting some sort of electromagnetic field and it's sent all of our systems out of whack."

"Even the view screen?" I question, looking up to the front of the ship.

"Lieutenant Blanche is working on that," says Fritz, jerking his head at the cluster of engineers. Blanche is heading them, looking distinctly frustrated. She lashes out suddenly with her foot, smacking whatever she's trying to fix. I raise my eyebrows and she favors me with a sweet little smile as she kicks it again. I nod; that was how we did it on _Enterprise_.

"Commander," I begin. Fritz continues staring at me, David looks over from the tactical station, and Winters glances up. I shake my hand in the latter Commander's direction. "Girl one." David goes back to work and Fritz goes to see if Hoshi and Noah could use some help. I speak with Winters: "How bad is it messed up? I mean, can we get any conformation on how many people are on the ship?"

She shakes her head: "Sensors indicate that there are two ships; one has a detail of thirty people and the other has twenty-five. I can't be sure which is which, as the life sign indicators aren't showing me what type of biosigns they are. Either way…" She trails off.

_Either way_, I continue in my head what she was reluctant to put to words, _a significant portion of _Avenger'_s crew is dead._ There had been one hundred and twenty-six people on board _Avenger_.

I can only hope Malcolm is among the twenty-five or thirty survivors.

Winters and I stare at each other for a brief moment when my attention gets diverted by a triumphant crow from the front of the bridge. I glance over to see that Blanche and her team have gotten the view screen up and running. The crow, however, is abruptly cut off when they see what is up there. I slowly walk up, Fritz and David coming up behind me. We stare.

There she is, _Avenger_, in all her once-beautiful glory. Now, she is a shell. She is charred black from weapon's fire, chipped and dented and bent. The other ship beside her is of a make we haven't seen, but we don't care. They have opened fire on our people; we will avenge _Avenger_.

I turn back to Winters, and David and Fritz who are behind me, asking, "How can we get on?"

"Transporter," says Fritz, not missing a beat.

"But you won't be able to get off that way," interjects Winters, frowning. "I won't be able to lock onto your biosigns."

"We can have shuttle pods ready," speaks up Travis Mayweather from the helm. We all turn to look at him. He coughs nervously: "While you're in there, getting the crew, me and two other pilots can take the shuttle pods in."

"It could work," says David, looking at Fritz. "And if anything happens, whoever's at tactical can lay down some cover fire."

"We can take them?" asks Hoshi, hesitant. "I mean, look at what they did to…"

"They were taken by surprise," theorizes Fritz, "if their systems were anymore on the…um"—he coughs uncomfortably, before saying quickly—"anymore on the fritz than ours are."

"No pun intended," I say. Fritz nods, his ears bright red. I look between my tactical officers. "D'yew two think that the aliens don't realize we're here yet, what with the systems all funky?"

"I wouldn't bet the farm on it just yet," says David, "but, yeah, possibly."

"Good," I say. "Commanders—boy ones—suit up. I want yew guys to get as many of yer people yew think we need and meet me at the teleporter."

"Aye," they say together. They stay where they are though, waiting.

"You're going, sir?" asks Winters. I nod.

"I'm invested in this," I say simply. I look at Hoshi next. "You've got command with Winters when I'm gone, and…" I trail off. I want three level headed people up here making decisions in my wake, and at least one of them needs to be prepared to open fire at any time. I turn to Fritz and David. "Who d'ya trust from the armory to be up here?"

Fritz and David do their weird Almost-Twin Telepathic Communication, thinking it over. David asks: "Schoolnik?"

"The Canadian?" says Fritz, brow furrowed. David levels a stare of disbelief against his friend, his eyebrows inching up to his hairline, and, even in the shadow of disaster, he manages to keep a sarcastic and witty head. Not to mention also keeping the ability to just screw around with Fritz.

"How many other _Schoolnik's_ do we know?" It's remarkable, really, how much of an old married couple these two act like. Then again, before Malcolm and me fell out, we used to be like that.

"Okay, good point," Fritz says after a moment. David rolls his eyes at me.

"And I thought _I_ was the absent-minded one."

_No_, I think, _you're both crazy sons of bitches._

"Schoolnik?" I say aloud.

"Yeah," says David. "Good guy, funny, little bit of an itchy trigger finger when he gets going, but level most of the time."

"Perfect. Get 'im up here."

_-_

Have I ever mentioned how much alike Fritz and David are? Probably, but it bears a second coming. They've got this crazy ass silent communication thing going on and, yes, while they seem like sweet little boys who just enjoy building miniature cities and their own robotics out of Lego's, they also happen to have temperaments akin to stun grenades and their Lego creations tend to have weapons systems that can be triggered just by walking passed them.

"Okay," David is saying, in full Henry V pre-battle mode; "We're going to be splitting up into groups of three or four. Yes, it will be more dangerous, but smaller groups move and conceal themselves more easily. Commander Schlosser and I will be with the Captain; Carter, you take Ross and Potter; Chandler, you've got La Salle, Weaver, and Hargitay; and Greene, take Lawrence, Edelstein, and Romano. Got it? Good. Grab your boom-sticks, kids," orders David as everyone nods, "and get on the pad."

Fritz, a sniper rifle already swung onto his back and two phase pistols strapped to his thighs (and I'm reasonably certain his got some other, less regulation items on his person too), picks up a pulse rifle. He moves onto the pad, standing beside both David and myself. He grins that horrible grim grin of his, the one the splits his face like someone has taken a knife a cut along his jaw bone.

I hold my pistol tightly as the rest of the armory officers (and several MACOs) climb onto the pad. Softly, I say, "We're goin' huntin'."

_-_

We appear in the middle of a hallway, alone amongst ourselves. We split apart into our groups.

"Yew find anyone," I say, "radio in. Take that person to the rendezvous then; give 'em a weapon. Go back searchin'."

I am apparently understood, as the teams all fade away without a backwards glance to the areas they were given to search. Now, Fritz, David, and me are the only ones left in the middle of the darkened corridor. David reaches out a hand and presses it to the wall; it comes back covered in black stuff.

"Firefight," he notes unnecessarily, running his soot covered hand down the side of his pants now. It disappears into the black.

David lapses into silence as Fritz starts to move ahead. He gestures with his hands for us to follow him. I move in line behind Fritz, and David falls back to watch our six.

_See, Malcolm?_ I want to say. _I may have had trouble before but, now, now I've_ _learned all yer military, fightin' mumbo-jumbo. This ol' dog can learn new tricks._

Somewhere, in the recesses of my mind, I can feel Malcolm laughing at me. I let my subconscious give him the finger.

We move in silence for a long while, everybody stalking down the long passage, not running upon anything at all except for the two opposing fire blackened wall. I recall another time as we walk, another mission like this but not, where Malcolm was there and we were whole.

"It's like were Yeats' beast," he had said, moving by my side. I had looked at him, confused, and he had explained, "The poem. And what rough beast, its hour come round at last/ Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?"

And here I was again, with Fritz and David in darkened tunnels, slouching, stumbling, limping on towards our Bethlehem.

Before me, Fritz stops suddenly. I run into his back, lost in my mind; I try to look over his shoulder to see what it is that gave him pause. David comes up behind me, and I know he's doing that thing he does because we're taller than him and he just _can't_ look over our shoulder and so he tips the top half of his body to the side to look, like a child does around his parent's legs. I think we both see it at the same time, the thing in the halo of Fritz's flashlight.

Two bodies in the yellow light, weapons discarded, are fallen on the floor with their limbs entangled in the parody of an embrace, cradling each other on the rocking ship. There's a ring of blood about them.

"Damn," whispers David. I look back at him, his head and shoulders awkwardly hanging over near my elbow. His face is twisted in a sad grimace and all his lines of age have become very prominent in this moment.

Something sounds before us, like the ripping of fabric. I turn back. Fritz is bent over the bodies, pulling off their name tags and rank identification. He stands and returns, handing the torn bits of fabric and metal to me. There's blood on the tips of his fingers, I notice, taking the scraps away.

"Lieutenant Jim Zelazny and Ensign Ingrid Jackson," I read aloud. Fritz bows his head briefly and David makes a cross in the air.

After our moment of silence, David contacts one of the groups: "Ajax, this is Bramage. Come in, Ajax."

"Ajax here," comes the voice of Lieutenant Devon Chandler over the crackle of static. There's an odd noise in the background, like someone trying to break something down.

"We've got two bodies," David relates over the line. Chandler sighs on the other end.

"Sorry to here that, sir," he says. He pauses and then says, "We're currently attempting to gain entry to the bridge."

"The door's shut?" I ask. Apparently, I asked loud enough that Chandler could hear me over the radio because he answers, "Yes, sir. Very shut."

"Continue on," orders David. "Bramage out." He looks between Fritz and me. "If the bridge is closed out, and we've found bodies, I think the sensible thing is to go look at the sickbay."

I nod, agreeing. "I always knew yew were the brains of the outfit," I tell him, gesturing to both he and Fritz. Fritz snorts, taking point again in a silent gesture that we should start moving. David and I fall in behind him once again, with me covering our six this time.

"Yeah." Fritz is muttering darkly from up front, more to himself than anything. "That's why his call sign is an abbreviation for 'brain damage'."

David steps on the back of Fritz's heel.

I snigger into the cavity of my upraised elbow.

­_-_

We reach sickbay without further incident, the little spat between Fritz and David notwithstanding. Though, truthfully, that was only a few childish things, like stopping suddenly and poking one another. I was forced to wonder, at one point, whether or not Malcolm had ever come into the Armory to find Fritz and David standing in front of each other, their fingers held out so close that they were _almost_ touching, saying, "He's touching me!"

The doors here are closed. Fritz takes me by the arm and pulls me off to one side, while David takes the side. Our side is the side with the door panel—which is burnt out from the fire fight, it looks like—and so I get to work on it. After a few minutes, the doors slide open.

From their opposite sides, Fritz and David stare intently at each other, their weapons raised, and, as one, spin into the sickbay. Inside, I know that they are looking around for potential enemies. Suddenly, their hands shoot out, in sync with one another, and gesture for me to enter. The area, I assume, is secure.

It's times like these that I miss Malcolm most.

I enter, my weapon held up on high. I take point and the two security officers fall in behind me as we move around, searching. Why aren't there any injured in here?

"Why don't yew two go out and search the rest o' the area around here? I'll be fine in here." I suggest, looking behind me. They nod and, like shadows in the night, fade out of the room. They make no sound as they leave, only the faint echoing of breath and I'm pretty sure that's just me that I hear. It's some sort of weird security officer thing, I think. Malcolm used to do it too. When I first noticed it, I was convinced Malcolm didn't breathe at all. That had caused some scary ass nightmares, I'll tell you.

I watch as they fade away, and I slowly turn. I glance around sickbay—not the sickbay I knew all those years ago, but a sickbay still—before moving into the darker recesses of the area. I can see evidence of even more fire fight on the walls and there are two aliens lying on the ground. A man—in a white doctor's coat—is lying prone over a biobed, two more bodies of officers near his feet. I dip my head down and look at the floor, eyes closed; so that's why there aren't any injured. I wait a moment before opening them, still staring at the floor.

Fuck.

Oh, fuck, fuck, double fuck.

There is blood. Fucking _everywhere_. A sick, dark, red line, reaching, squirming along the white floors of sickbay. It trails up, jaggedly, around. Twisting, writhing. It breaks at points and there are scuff marks in it, like someone tried to kick out with their feet or dragged their feet as they crawled. Bile rises in my throat as I notice fingerprints etched in the blood. It's like Hansel and Gretel and their bread crumbs but so much, much worse.

My pistol hanging limply at my side, I follow.

I come to the end of the trail—after having followed its winding death behind a counter—and, in my throat, my breath catches. I make broken sobbing noises, staring.

Malcolm lies at the end of the death trail, arms held up, grasping desperately to a phase pistol. He shakes—quakes, really—and stares out with wild, feverish eyes. Blood is smeared down the lines of his face and he makes odd choking noises as he breathes—rapidly, frightened. He's like a wounded, cornered rabbit.

I fight down my horror. I have to be calm, sane—I have to be strong for him.

And how delightfully ironic is that? Wasn't it always him being the strong one? Wasn't he the one who told me everything was going to be all right, the one who said, "It's but a wound, it will heal", who told me to remember to breathe? Wasn't he the rock that I broke myself against?

"Mal?" I say softly, using his nickname, trying desperately to get his attention. But I fail. He gazes out, wild, untamed.

"They came," he whispers fitfully. "They came and I-I couldn't stop them. So fast, _so fast_." He sounds so terribly broken, so un-sane. He continues. "Gone. Gone. All of them, gone. _Alone_. Left me." Tears drop down from the blind pearls that were his eyes, cascading down his dirty, bloody flesh. Lines of salt.

The pistol is still pointed at me, shaking with his terror, his madness.

"Put it down," I whisper, so soft, so quiet. I reach out a hand, beseechingly. _Don't go,_ I want to tell him. _Don't go, not when I have just found you._

"Killed them all. My _crew_," he says, so brokenly that I want to weep from him and never stop. Just cry until there is nothing left of me but a shell of torn human flesh, a pile of dry ash and bone. Maybe we'll find some peace then, together in the sky. That, I know, is where we were always meant to be. Not upon this lonely mortal coil, this land, this ocean, this sea of despair. But the sky, the clouds, the _space_—

The air was meant for us.

"Please," I say, voice breaking slightly, so close to begging—but, hell, who am I kidding? I am begging. "Put the gun down, Malcolm. Just put it _down_."

And, for the first time, I think that Malcolm really sees me. His wild eyes lock on me and I know I am a red, red buoy in this field of snow. I know I am a light that brings unto him clarity.

"Trip?"

The word cracks like a whip through the air—our air, our peace—and his pistol shakes fiercely.

"Yeah, buddy," I say. I kneel down and he keeps staring at me.

"Hallu-hallucination?" he asks.

"Nope," I reply softly. "It's really me."

"But you've been gone for so long."

"I'm here now," I tell him. His face crumbles, collapses. He starts to cry heavily, bitterly, brokenly. Everything about him is broken, I realize as the pistol clatters to the floor. He opens his arms to me and I fall into him, wrapping my arms around him and him me. He sobs against me, crying for his lost crew and for himself and, maybe, crying a little bit for me and him together. I press him to me tightly.

I'm here now.


	7. Seven: Meanwhile, Back In Hell

**Note:** I wish to apologize profusely and bake you all Cookies of Apology, but the general consensus probably would rather I finish this thing than spending time baking confections. The reasons of my extended absence are thus: a lead in the play, AP courses, college applications, auditions, a bad cold (as we speak, I still can barely talk), and a severe bout of writer's block. But I've got my game back and here you go.  
**Thank You's:** Tata (I'd like to say _Don't worry, it'll all turn out bright and shiny_ but that's not my style. Just—hang in a little longer; I may surprise you.), jazzy, Exploded Pen (Tears are good. Tears are the goal.), Queen of Fairyland (I love a good hug), RoaringMice (Thank you! It always makes me happy when you review.), liz, luna, and General Kunama (Yes—cry, my little puppets, cry! I mean, uh, thanks!).  
**Warning:** Cursing, ahoy.

Seven: Meanwhile, Back In Hell 

_It's something I have to do  
__I won't let you fall apart  
__I was there, too  
__I won't let you fall apart  
__Before everything else  
__I won't let you fall apart  
__I was like you  
__I won't let you fall apart_

—_Nine Inch Nails, "The Fragile"_

"To all Starfleet personnel," says Devon Chandler over the general frequency. Malcolm startles at the sound of Chandler's crazy-ass Irish accent and he jerks out of my arms, eyes wet and wild. I reach out to him, half an ear on the words that come out of Chandler's mouth: "We are presently opening the doors to the bridge."

"No, no, no, _no_." Malcolm is whispering the litany over Chandler, becoming even more distressed and burying his stained face in his hands.

"What is it?" I ask, grasping his shoulders. He's still shaking badly, whispering 'no' over and over.

"Don't go in, don't go in, don't," Malcolm says.

Over the general frequency, I can hear the doors open. There are gasps of complete horror and disgust. Chandler exclaims, "Oh, _shit_!" before slipping into a stream of Gaelic that is most definitely not fit for mixed company gatherings.

"Fuck," curses Hargitay, one of Chandler's team and one of the foulest mouthed MACOs in existence. I mean, Hargitay could curse out Major Hayes, who, before his death, had made it a point to learn as many curses in as many languages as humanly possible. (He claimed that _Zkurvysyne_ was his favorite.) "God, there's mother fuckin' bodies everywhere! Holy shit, it's like a fuckin' battle ground."

"_No_," Malcolm says, his voice pitched high.

"Captain Tucker," says Chandler. "Commanders Schlosser and Webster—what are we to do?"

"How many bodies?" asks Fritz over the line.

"Thirty, maybe more," relays Chandler, his voice thick.

"Is Captain Reed anywhere in that mess?" David sounds highly distressed over the possibility.

"No," I say. "He's with me."

"How is he?" several people question.

I look at Malcolm, face pale, tear-stained, and grimy with blood and soot. His wild eyes stare out at me, terrified.

"We need to get him back to the ship," I say.

"He's alive?" breathes Fritz.

"Yeah." Though he really doesn't look it. There's blood all over him and his face, like I've said, is smeared and dirty and, dammit, I've seen corpses that look better than him right now. I grasp one of his shaking hands and repeat my earlier words to my Away Team: "We need to get back to the ship, ASAP."

"Sir," speaks up Major Camilla Greene, "what about everyone else?

I look into Malcolm's eyes. "He said they're all dead."

"_Sir_?" It's David, shocked and appalled and utterly in disbelief.

"'S what he said, David," I tell him.

"Okay," says Fritz, taking the situation over. "Then, to all teams, get your asses to the landing bay and get on one of the pods. Do it fast but silently. Do not make contact with the enemy under any circumstances."

"And if you do happen to run into any of them," says David, over his shock now. "Kill them _fucking_ dead."

A chorus of 'yes, sir's is raised and the general frequency goes dead.

"C'mon, Mal," I say after a moment, rising up from the floor. I take his arm up with me, but he doesn't get up. "Mal? C'mon, buddy, we need ta get back to the landin' bay."

Malcolm shakes his head slowly. There's something terrified in his actions and, yes, I know his entire crew was just obliterated (probably before his eyes, 'cause it would just be _his_ luck, you know what I'm sayin'?) but he should still get the fact that we need to get the hell out of, well, hell.

I try for a few more minutes to get him up, as the concerned best friend, before I change my tactic to something I know he will respond to.

"Malcolm Ailpein Reed!" I snap, doing my best impression of my father after I had blown something up. "Get up this instant, young man!"

While his body visibly becomes rigid, he doesn't respond.

I forgot to account for the fact that Malcolm doesn't like his father very much and the fact that he was probably a stubborn little wretch when he was younger. What the hell am I talking about? He _still_ is a stubborn little wretch.

"Reed, this is your superior officer," I say. "Yew will get up or I will come down and get yew, dammit!"

"I can't," he whispers. I blink.

"Yew can't?"

Malcolm shakes his head. I look at the hand I hold and then at his face.

"Why?"

"I," he says. "I…I…"

"Malcolm?" I ask, beginning to get really frightened by what's going on here.

"I…I…I can't—I can't move—move my legs."

I blink again.

Oh.

And then the information hits me and I'm down on the ground, kneeling before him and clutching at his hands. There's a moment when I don't say anything, where he doesn't say anything, and it feels like the entire world has stopped around us, like somehow everything has stopped spinning and we've thrown ourselves off our axes and into our respective suns.

I search for words to say but there are none and so we stare at one another in shock, frozen in time.

"Sir?" comes Fritz's voice suddenly. He sounds uncertain.

"Yeah?" I ask, my voice hoarse.

"Do you and the Boss need help?" he asks.

"I—I've got it, Fritz," I tell him.

"We'll meet you then," says David, "at the pad." He, too, sounds uncertain and kind of in disbelief. "Bramage and Marlene out."

I'm left staring at Malcolm. What am I supposed to do? I've never been in a situation like this. And, really, who has? Is there some support group out there for people who, in an attempt to reconnect with their best friend, went out after them and found them broken and bleeding and not able to feel there legs? Maybe I should start one.

"Okay," I say, snapping back into reality. "Okay. We just gotta think about this rational like."

Malcolm gives me a look and I swear his back to his old self.

"Were yew shot in the back?" I ask. He nods. I think for a moment—must bandage wound. So I unzip by uniform and take off the top of my blues, ripping it up into long strips. I lay the strips aside and wrap my arms around Malcolm.

"Lean forward," I order. He does so mechanically and I look down at the gory mess of his back.

I can see bone. I can see bone. _I can see bone_.

I close my eyes and start to wrap it up. He flinches against me but doesn't make a sound. I don't know if he's even feeling the pain anymore, what with the shock I'm sure he's in.

"Okay," I say for a third time as we sit there, just kind of holding each other.

After a moment, I pull away, reluctantly, feeling as though I'm leaving something important behind in the motion. Silently, I move to his side, placing his arm over my shoulders and wrapping one of my own around the upper part of his torso, gently navigating the wound. Together, I make us stand and take Malcolm's entire weight, before lopping my other arm beneath his legs and lifting him up.

I carry him slowly, stepping carefully and not even caring that I can't reach my weapon. He's what's important. He's safety is what matters. Maybe that's why I'm carrying him like I once carried Lizzie, when she was a girl.

We don't say anything as we move through the hall ways. I'm having the Dream again, somewhere in the back of my mind. We lay on ice like always except this time I look over and the ice is turning red around him and it's on my hands too. There's a dull ache inside me, growing sharper and shaper with every step I take and every inch of imaginary ice that turns red.

"Stop," says Malcolm harshly. I freeze. He whispers, "Listen."

I do. And I hear it, gun shots. I tighten my grip on him, hear footsteps now, coming towards us. I slink against a wall, trying to hide us, as Fritz and David round the corner. They're speaking, angrily and tightly.

"Turned his damn communicator off—!"

"Has he taken leave of his senses—!"

"Always expected he'd go nuts—"

"Fritz—"

"Oh, like you—"

"Yeah—"

"How were we supposed to tell him—?"

"_I know_!"

I clear my throat and they freeze, spinning around with weapons raised. They see who I am and speak at the same time.

"Are you out of your goddamn—?"

"Is something wrong with you mentally, we could have shot—?"

Their words die off when they see what I'm carrying.

"Oh," says Fritz softly. David nods.

"We need to get back," I say urgently, pushing off the wall. They nod rapidly and I fear for their necks. Fritz moves to take point, David to guard our six. They don't offer to take Malcolm from me; maybe they know I wouldn't be able to let him go.

David fills me in as we go, Fritz breaking in for witty commentary and attempting to bring some levity into the situation.

"We were all getting back to the shuttle pod when we were ambushed."

"Sneaky bastards."

"The MACOs—"

"Also sneaky."

"—and the rest of the Away Team are holding down the fort—but I don't think we can hold it for long."

"Speak for yourself, I'm a walking arsenal."

"We should get Boss out first," David says. "And then start filing out the rest."

"I'm buying," I say.

David suddenly moves up beside Fritz, who has stopped. I sense that we are about to enter the fire fight. Wordless, they turn into the fight. I follow in to, conscious of the fact that they are protecting me.

Frits levels his gun then and shots ring out, as shots are wont to do.

Lieutenant Joshua Carter appears out of thin air to take Malcolm—who, by now, has passed out—from me and bring him into the shuttle pod, without questioning what exactly is wrong with him: he just acts. Carter, I recall, has been one of Malcolm's from the start on _Enterprise_ (he was an Ensign then) and I suddenly wonder if all of the armory and security officers Malcolm trained have some sort of weird, ESP sense or power or something that allows them to appear at will.

_My Armory Sense is tingling. Captain Reed is in danger! Stealth Officer Teleportation and InvisibilityPowers—ACTIVATE!_

I let Carter take him, knowing it's for the best, but still feeling like that important thing is being left behind.

I don't have much time to dwell, however, as a blast comes skatingover my head. I duck quickly, reaching to my hip for my gun and pulling it up. I start shooting at pretty much anything that moves, barely even taking in the fact that the aliens were shooting at look pretty damn human, except for the fact that their skin is this creepy, translucent red, and, _ugh, is that a brain I see?_

I'm still shooting when I hear David call out, "Shit!"

Still firing, I crouch down and look over at him. He's grimacing and shaking his hand—his mechanical hand—like it's been shocked.

"What happened?" calls Fritz, not even looking away. "Are you okay?"

"Shot my gun out of my hands with one of their energy weapons," he says back. "Shocked the hell out of my right hand."

"Well, it would," quips the other armory officer.

"Yes, damn these electrical bits anyway," replies David.

I shake my head. How can they joke at a time like this? I guess it's because they've had years of being in these kinds of situations and someone's gotta bring the funny, huh?

"Do yew need a gun?" I ask him, standing up again and firing at the aliens. _Ew, that _is_ a brain._

"I think I got it," says David.

Fritz freezes—okay, so the man's still shooting but the rest of him is frozen; it's actually pretty disconcerting is you think about it—and looks over at him. He says, very quickly, "David Thaddeus Webster, don't you _dare_ do what I think you're about to do—"

He's cut off when David apparently dares to do what ever Fritz thought he was about to do because Fritz goes completely quiet and David jumps up, moving out into where his gun is lying. He does this crazy ass, Jackie Chan full body spin-flippy thing through the air, dodging energy blasts,picking up his gun mid-spin-flippy thing and landing perfectly on one knee, the other leg stretched out to the side, completely balanced and shooting like he didn't execute one of the most fascinating things I have seen happen that wasn't in a movie. _Ever_.

I get that he was in the circus, I really do.

He gets clipped in the head suddenly and goes down. I run over to him and fire at the alien who shot him, while dragging his dazed body away. I put him behind a crate, call for a MACO to get him out of here, and head back into the fight. I start shooting again, with a kind of wild abandon and mindlessness that I haven't experienced in a while.

These bastards opened fire on one of our ships. I shoot. These bastards destroyed her. Shoot. These bastards killed over one hundred Starfleet personnel. Shoot. These bastards hurt Malcolm. Shoot. He can't feel his legs. Shoot. These _bastards_.

"Captain!"

I turn around at Fritz's shout, mouth open and poised to ask just what he wanted because I was kind of in the middle of something, in time to see two things: One, an alien coming up to me bent on my eminent doom; and two, said alien's head detaching itself from its shoulders and black blood pouring everywhere, into my face and into my—

_It's in my mouth!_ Dropping my gun in shock, I claw frantically at my blood filled mouth and try to spit it out. Oh, God, I'm going to die from creepy alien blood poisoning!

I spit again and look up to see Fritz standing there, highlighted by the shooting going on behind him and holding his pulse rifle by the end it was never meant to be held by and _that_ end is currently covered in the black creepy alien blood that is, of course, no doubt going to cause my death. He's grinning that violent, blood thirsty grin of his again.

"Their necks are brittle as all get out," he comments.

Wiping my tongue on the back of my hand on last time, I frown at him: "How d'ya know that?"

The temperature in Fritz's normally warm brown eyes drops considerably. He growls, "They're the aliens that captured David and the Boss."

"Huh." I pause, thinking it through. "How many yew think yew can get in one swing?"

"Quite a few." He smiles at me again and hands me a rifle.

"Alright," I say, mirroring the way he holds it. "Let's go be guillotines."

Together, we turn into the fight and start swinging away with our guns like a couple of angst ridden teenagers with baseball bats going after their mom's china. (Something, contrary to popular belief, I have never done. The only thing of my mama's I ever destroyed was that table during dinner and I did not mean that. But that's not saying I have never once _contemplated_ smashing Mama's china with a baseball bat.)

"Good emotional _release_," growls Fritz, smashing the neck of an alien on the last word. He spins it around the right way briefly, fires twice, spins it back, and swings again at a ducking alien. He misses—as the alien was ducking, of course—but Fritz comes back up with a bottom-to-floor swing that, quite frankly, is rather impressive, taking the alien's head of by his chin.

I mentally score him on the levels of technical execution and artistic interpretation while I make a few swings of my own.

He takes off another head of an alien with an absolutely delightful upwards kick. Boy's going for the gold, isn't he?

"Sirs," shouts Camilla Greene. I look over after giving another swing, switching back to firing mode—I don't even care about the blood any more. (Except for the stuff that was in my mouth that I am must likely going to die from; are there pills for that?) Greene's holding down the fort by the bay doors, ruthlessly taking out anything that comes towards them. "Everyone else is on board or back on the ship!"

Midway through her sentence is when both Fritz and I realize that we are, in fact, alone amongst the carnage.

"Son of a bitch," Greene curses, shooting one of the alien's point blank in its highly visible brain. She calls out, "Last ferry back!"

Fritz and I swing madly as we make are way towards her, but before I know what's happening, I'm down, with a feeling of confusion in my head. Suddenly, though, I'm up again and being dragged away. I vaguely see Fritz in front of me, firing.

Dazed, I really come back to in the shuttle pod. It's filled Greene, Fritz, myself, and one of Greene's MACOs, Harvey Romano, in the shuttle, with Travis Mayweather piloting. We're midway to our ship, swerving a little as we're shot at.

"You okay, sir?" asks Greene. "You took some blunt shrapnel to the head."

"Just dazed," I say, looking around at them. Greene's hair is out of her normal braid, wild and crazy, looking like the mad Italian woman her men accuse her of being, but otherwise fine; Fritz is covered in alien blood and sporting a split lip; and Romano is holding his left arm awkwardly—his shoulder must be dislocated. I feel my own head for a wound; there's just a lump there. Ironically, it's in the same place I got hit when Malcolm and me's shuttle went down all those years ago.

Travis speaks up cautiously from the front: "I piloted Captain Reed in, sir."

I stand up shakily. "How was he?"

"The medics looked concerned, sir, when they were taking him away," Travis replies, pulling no punches. He's known me long enough to know to avoid sugarcoating things for me. He continues, "He was unconscious the entire time." He pauses. "He looked like shit, if you'll pardon."

"Yeah," I say. "He did."

We finish the ride in tense silence, hitting the cargo bay hard. I'm the first out, brushing passed medics, Fritz hard behind me. After navigating the halls and the lift, we storm into the bridge. Our replacements jump up from their seats, allowing us to retake them. Fritz announces to me before I even get into position, "The enemy has engaged us."

"Give the ring back," I snap. "Shields up, highest possible."

"Aye," replies Fritz, slapping buttons on his console. I feel the buzz of protection going up around us, more so then before. "Weapons, Captain?"

I stare out of the view screen and I remember how I found Malcolm, on the ground, shaking, terrified. I remember his crew. I remember: _"I can't move my legs." _I turn to Fritz, my eyes frozen and my voice steely. "Blow them outta the _goddamn sky_."

With a cold grin, Fritz says coolly, "Delighted to, sir."

He shoots out violently with the weapons, one hand slamming down on the console and the other absently gripping his neck. _Payback_, I think. They hurt him a long time ago; and they hurt Malcolm and David then too. Now they've gone back after Malcolm. I lean back in my chair, watching through the view screen as volley after volley hits against the alien ship and our own _Avenger_. We have to get them all. _Avenger_ can't be rescued. Payback.

"Incoming," announces Schoolnik. "Brace for impact."

We brace.

Fritz fires.

Hoshi asks, "No one?"

He fires again.

"No one," I reply.

Again.

"Oh," she says.

Again.

Noah puts his hand on his wife's shoulder as she bows her head.

Again.

"Brace for impact," repeats Schoolnik.

Only this time, we're not shot. On the view screen, there is a fiery blaze of red as the alien ship blows up, the waves from the explosion flying towards us, wrapping itself around our shield, and rocking us in its arms. I look at my men and women on the Bridge as the red lights up the room, basking their faces in its glow.

"Fuck you," Fritz whispers at the screen after a long while as the smoke and fire dissipates. His eyes are shut.

_-_

David's already in sickbay when we arrive. He's got a cold compress to the wound on his head and looks a lot more collected than when I last saw him. He seems relieved when Fritz and I sit down, not saying anything. We understand without having the words said: Malcolm's in surgery; David had been waiting for us to come back; he didn't want to be cleaned up alone, not without knowing how we were. He didn't want to be the only one—

The room seems impossibly big and vast, I think. And the three of us, sitting, waiting, with our backs to one wide wall, seem very, very small, and utterly childlike. It may be the screaming silent white noise.

David's voice, small and soft in this big room but also like a man screaming from the mountain tops, suddenly speaks out: "I had a dream about a potato last night."

"Oh, God," Fritz whispers beside me, in his gravel-like voice. He bends over in his chair, head in hand.

"It was green," continues David on my other side, oblivious to the distress of his best friend. He's looking at the ceiling. Fritz suddenly sits up.

"I'm gonna kill him," he declares. He tries to move over me to get to David. I lift an arm, restraining him.

"No," I say. "I'll get this one myself."

David, meanwhile, has been babbling—unfortunately, he had an English minor when he was attending Harvard and eventually got a Master's in it, so he's been babbling quite coherently. "And I was under this lake, in the water, and there was this large squid with me. And, low and behold, there was the potato, just sitting there in the middle of my dream. So I, pleasantly—"

I grab his knee tightly and turn to look at him. David looks back, at both me and Fritz, who is leaning around me to stare.

After a moment, we all start laughing.

There's nothing else.

By the time the laughter dies down, we've slipped from our chairs to the floor and are leaning against one another, our heads bowed in silent contemplation.

"Captain? Commanders?"

Together, we all look up at the medic before us. She's a tall woman—at least as tall as Fritz, who's six foot three in his boots—with cocoa skin and almond colored eyes. She smiles prettily at us, bright white teeth exposed. As three confidently heterosexual males, I am reasonably certain that we are all thinking the same thing: African Goddess.

David suddenly stands, grinning cockily at us, before looking at said Medic African Goddess—who could probably crush him like a bug if she wanted to.

"I'm wounded worst," he states, removing the cloth from his cut and presenting the blood to her.

"I see," she says; "Come back with me. Someone will be by to see to you, sirs," she adds over her shoulder, leading David away.

David grins over his shoulder and swaggers after her.

"Does he really think she would be interested?" I ask Fritz as we both stare contemplatively after them.

"It'd be funny as hell, wouldn't it?" says Fritz, not really answering the question.

I nod, considering the fact that Medic African Goddess is as tall as Fritz and David is smaller than Malcolm.

Shortly thereafter, two medics come in and cart Fritz and me off.

_-_

David is still not out by the time both Fritz and I are done; so, he and I sit down in the seats that we vacated and wait—which is something we've been getting pretty damned good at, as a collective. I mean, I was good at it before, but now I'm an expert. Icould give classes.

Fritz clears his throat. I look at him and he shifts uncomfortably.

"What do we do?" he asks. "How do we cope with the knowledge that an entire ship has been lost? How do we cope with the knowledge that this—all of this—has been our fault?" He pauses, exhales, and asks plaintively, "Where do we go from here?"

"Home," I tell him. "Home, where we never let this happen again."

Fritz nods and looks at the floor through the spaces between his clasped fingers.

_-_

Returned from his expedition with Medic African Goddess (whose name we have learned is Nia and who happens to have a date with David the Tuesday after we get back to Earth), David sits in his chair, humming lightly under his breath; Fritz is still staring at the floor; and I'm biting the inside of my mouth absently.

Phlox enters, in clean scrubs. David stops humming, Fritz looks up finally, and I consider the meaning of 'clean scrubs' after a surgery.

"Captain Tucker," he says, looking at me. "Captain Reed is stable."

"He's okay?" asks David, drawing the doctor's attention.

"He's stable," repeats Phlox. He looks back at me. "Normally, I wouldn't let you in, but he asked to see you."

I nod, standing silently and moving bravely towards the door Phlox exited.

It's a private room and Malcolm's lying on the biobed, in clean white sheets, hooked up to a bunch of machines, looking at the opposite wall, and I'm having flashbacks to when I saw him before. So much is the same; so much is different. I sit down in the chair that's pulled up next to his bed.

"Hey," I say, trying to draw his attention.

"Trip?" Malcolm asks, turning his face towards me. His eyes are foggy, unclear from all the pain meds he is on. Quite frankly, I'm stunned that he recognizes me. But, hey—Malcolm Reed, Medical Marvel. No drug is too big; even the heavy duty stuff.

Mmm; Vicodin.

"Yeah," I say. "It's me."

"I thought I had dreamt all this," he breathes; "dreamt all this death, dreamt you and your return… I wish I had."

His eyes fill, like clouds about to burst. Is it too much to ask, I wonder, that maybe—just fucking _maybe_—he could forget a little bit of what happened? That he wouldn't remember seeing his crew slaughtered before his eyes? That we could tell him when he's healed? _Is that too much to ask, Goddammit!_

A tear drops from his eye, curling down his cheek, and I watch its salty descent. We blink at the same time and Malcolm turns his head away from me again.

"Don't yew dare," I growl at the back of his head. "Don't yew even dare, Reed."

He doesn't move and I keep talking.

"I walked away from you once when yew did this," I say. "I walked away and didn't see you for years an' maybe if I hadn't walked away, maybe none of this would've happened. Maybe we'd be all right. Maybe they wouldn't be dead, and maybe David and Fritz wouldn't be broken. Maybe Jon wouldn't look like he does. Maybe your sister wouldn't have been hurt. Maybe we would have been on a ship together, or maybe we would have retired and gone to leave in some backwater little town when I would fix cars and you would blow crap up and we would meet some girls and get married on the same day. And I'd still be your best friend."

I'm breathing heavily now, full of pain and anger and remorse and guilt. I reach out and touch his shoulder; and he doesn't flinch away.

"But maybe's don't mean shit," I snap. "They don't mean a goddamn thing 'cause maybe's don't count. What we have is the here and now and it occurs to me that I never apologized and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I left, I'm so fucking sorry, but this time's going to be different. I'm not leaving this time. I'm staying and I'm helping. I'm not leaving."

There's a long pause. Malcolm doesn't roll over and I don't let go, but—

"I missed you."

_-_

After a while, Malcolm falls asleep and Phlox asks me to leave.

"He needs all the rest he can get," he says. "He's in for a long road."

"How bad is he?" I ask. "I mean, you operated on his back, right?"

"I repaired what damage I could," Phlox tells me. I give him an odd smile.

"That doesn't sound real inspirin', Doc."

"It is not." He rubs a hand across his face, holding the bridge of his nose for a long time. "There was too much nerve and spinal damage, Trip. If he ever wants to walk again, he's going to need to return to Earth and go through many more surgeries and extensive physical therapy."

I look at him. "It's that bad?"

"Yes," he says, "It is."

"But there's a someday, right?" I say. I mean, this is Malcolm Reed were talking about. He could get hit in the head with a brick and he'd bounce back like it was a Nerf ball.

"Like I said," repeats Phlox, "Many more surgeries and extensive physical therapy, and he should be able to walk again. _Should_. There's no guarantee."

"So, we go back to Earth."

He nods: "Yes. It would also be wise is someone were to live with him." Phlox gives me a pointed look. "At least for a short time."

"I can do that," I say. "But will he?"

That gets me a chuckle.

I shuffle my feet briefly. "Who do yew recommend for PT?"

Phlox gives me a pensive look. "Well, I would be willing—"

"Really?" I ask.

"Yes," he says. I smile, a real one, and turn to go back out into the waiting room—when I realize that Fritz and David are waiting out there for me.

_-_

They sit there silently after I tell them. I feel like I've been stealing canes from cripples and blind people, and then went out to kick some puppies.

"I wanted them to be all right—I wanted _him_ to be all right," says David suddenly, staring down at his hands. He blinks and looks up at us. His face is twisted in a grimace—a grimace of incomprehension and pain. He lashes out with his words: "_It is not fair_. There are enough broken people in the world. Why can't he be whole?"

"As the philosopher Jagger said," intones Fritz, trying desperately for glib, "you can't always get what you want."

"But if you try sometimes," I add in quietly, "you just might find, you get what you need."

We didn't get them all back. And the one we _did_ get back, we didn't get him back whole. But we got him back.

"Aw baby," we say together, "you get what you need."

_-_

_Two more chapters after this, kids. YAY._


	8. Eight: Like A Beating Heart

**Note the First: **Sorry for another long wait. Both real life and I suck. But seeing as I am a graduate of high school now, this should go fairly quickly.  
**Note the Second: **Trip reads a passage out of _A Tale of Two Cities_ in this section. I would just like to say it is exactly as it is found in the book, because I couldn't write Dickens in Trip accent; it just seemed _wrong_. And, yes, that also serves as a disclaimer that I do not lay claim to Dickens.  
**Thank You's: **Tata (I would like to apologize that I did it again and say that I refuse to let this thing end.), archteri, Exploded Pen (Hey, don't worry; the name made me laugh too—and I picked it.), jazzy, General Kunama, liz (Yes, _zkurvysyne _is a real word; it means 'son of a bitch' in Czech. And someone noticed Marlene! Yay! That, personally, gave me great delight in writing. I have deeply thought out notes on the backgrounds of Fritz and David. Fritz's parents died when he was twelve and he was legally adopted by a great-aunt of his in England whose surname was Dietrich. His then took that name for the time he stayed with her and had it for two years while working for the German Army, where he ended up getting the call sign Marlene because of the actress, Marlene Dietrich. Obviously, he eventually retook his original surname, Schlosser, but the call sign still stuck.), firebirdgirl, Boleyn, and Triptacular.  
**Random: **I don't remember every stating what month this was in and so I therefore say something about June in this part; for the love of God, somebody correct me if I was wrong and this is taking place in, like September.

Eight: Like a Beating Heart

_Well, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me  
__What would I do without you child?  
__I'm afraid I can't say._

_--Janis Joplin, "Farewell Song"_

With my feet propped up on the edge of his bed, I sit reading a comic book to Malcolm. He's unresponsive to the words, which is either because he doesn't want to talk to me about anything because, hey, who would after what he went through? Or he just really doesn't like the comic book. There's also the fact that he could be trying to come up with a clever escape plan out of sickbay and, really, any plan that he's going to come up with is going to be pretty damn clever because (a) he is still ex-Security and (b) not to sound callus, but the man can't walk.

Judging from the time a spent with him on _Enterprise_, it's probably all three.

It's a little something I like to call the Malcolm Reed Unholy Trinity of Doom.

I flip the page and Malcolm suddenly asks, "Is there supposed to be some sort of continuity to these things?"

Startled, I look up. He's staring at me, perfectly lucid—like he really _had _been listening to me as I read and had been trying to absorb the information. Phlox told me that Malcolm was going to have lucid days and days of not so much until he was taken off his pain meds. And, considering the whole Malcolm Reed, Medical Marvel thing that I've been contending with all these years, I kinda figured the lucid days would win out.

However, I was not at all expecting days of complete crazy.

"Yew were listening?" I ask, unsure.

Malcolm gives me a look like I'm the crazy one: "Of course."

I begin to consider the fact that maybe I am in an alternate universe and _I don't like it_.

I close the book. "Maybe you should get some rest."

"I would like to find out what happens, now that you have gotten me sucked in," he says and there he is, the old Malcolm, the Malcolm that I thought I would never get to see again and I open up the comic, reading again.

Two pages later, I realize the crafty bastard tricked me and I looked up to see him smiling at me.

"Well, yew know, yew suck," I tell him.

"I really did want to know," Malcolm says, gesturing for me to continue.

Despite his most probable craziness and his pain, he is still Malcolm and I read again.

And I keep reading for the next few days, because Phlox says he thinks it helps (I think Phlox _actually _thinks that it's keeping Malcolm out of his hair so more power to me, you know what I mean?) and because, yes, I do like hanging out with him—despite the crazy.

_-_

I've been granting the crew a lot lately: I know they're all hurt from what we found, from the idea that we only were able to bring one back alive. I am too. So that's why, as I sit in the sick bay for day three of reading, I'm completely prepared to gloss over the fact that there are movies playing nonstop in the Mess, music is now playing all over the ship, and Hoshi Sato's husband, Noah, is probably entertaining the Bridge crew with magic tricks—which means someone's putting out a fire somewhere, because I've seen Noah's magic tricks and not all of them end in bunnies.

Malcolm and I have gone through all of the comic books I brought with me and we are now on a borrowed copy of _A Tale of Two Cities_.

"A wonderful fact to reflect upon," I read, "that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it! Something of the awfulness, even of Death itself, is referable to this."

I pause and look up at Malcolm, who's staring at the far wall. I turn my head back to the pages but his voice stops me.

"Is it true?" he asks.

I look back up; he's watching me.

"Is what true?"

"That I may never walk again," he says. "Is it true?"

I tell him what Phlox told me, that, with surgeries and PT, he could walk again.

"But there's no guarantee," Malcolm says.

"There's a chance," I say, my voice hard.

"But there's no guarantee," he repeats, turning his head away from me. His voice had been hollow, like the wind.

I try to keep reading but, after five minutes, I know it's useless. I still sit there, with the book open on my knees, for a long time.

After he falls asleep, I slam the book closed and fight the urge to cry.

_-_

I sit alone in the mess, a cup of cold coffee before me. Fritz and David have come and gone, leaving food for me that the other picks up. They tried to talk, but I just sent them back to work. There was nothing they could say to absolve me of my sins.

"So, Hoshi told Madeline," Noah says, sitting down next to me and beginning to eat.

"How'd she take it?" I ask, startled out of my silence. Also, I'm interested: I had started and stopped to Madeline as many letters as I had tried to write Malcolm when we first parted. I had wanted to tell Madeline myself that we found Malcolm but I couldn't find the words, so I asked Hoshi.

He takes a bite of his salad and says, "There was crying."

"There was crying?" I repeat.

Noah nods: "There was crying. Lots and lots of crying." He sips at his water, adding, "I'm going to need a check-up with Phlox because I think I may have grown ovaries just by watching."

We sit in silence for a while, him eating and me staring into the coffee.

"So, apparently, I killed it," I say suddenly. Noah looks at me, a piece of lettuce hanging out of his mouth. He pushes it in with his finger.

Noah isn't used to my abrupt sense of conversation, but, if there's one thing to be said about him, it's that he sure as hell knows how to roll with the punches. "Well, I'm sure whatever it was you killed, you sent it to a better place."

"No," I say. "It was—I said somethin' to Malcolm I probably shouldn't've said."

"Oh." He nods. "And now he's gone unresponsive again?"

"Yeah," I say. I pause and add, "It was 'bout his legs, and walkin'."

"Ah," Noah says. "Well, from what Hoshi has told me, there's a chance that, given the right surgeries and proper doctors and PT—there's still the chance, isn't there?"

"Yeah," I say, "but he's a pessimist."

"There's that," he replies around his fork. "But I like to look at it as the cup half full and if Phlox says there's a chance, then there's a chance and he should accept that."

"Malcolm's actually a _cup empty_ kind a guy," I say. Noah shrugs and eats his salad.

"Any cup that's empty," he says, "is just waiting to be filled."

_-_

"Sadly, sadly, the sun rose," I read, lying in a bio-bed adjacent to Malcolm's with the book open on my stomach; "and it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of good abilities and good emotions, incapable of their directed exercise, incapable of his own help and his own happiness, sensible of the blight on him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away."

I looked over at Malcolm, putting the book down by my hip: "When I was a kid, I used to think Dickens was real depressing."

Malcolm doesn't say anything.

"I got halfway through _Tale of Two Cities_," I continue, "and was jus' like, That's it, I quit, I'm gonna go slit my wrists now. Because how can these people deal with what's goin' on about them, yew know? So damn depressin'." I pause. "I told that to my mama. She just looked at me and said: There are people in this world that are just ordinary at first, with no intentions of ever amountin' to anythin' great, and then they get thrown into something beyond their control an' they adapt and become extraordinary and that's not depressing—it's inspirin'."

He rolls his head over and looks at me, with the question of "Was this a pep talk you just gave me?" in his eyes. I shrug.

"Just tryin' to, I dunno, be profound about something." _And get yew outta that goddamn funk you're in!_ I pick up the book as he rolls his head back and I read again: "Chapter Six, Hundreds of People. The quiet lodgings of Doctor Manette were in a quiet street-corner not far from Soho-square. On the afternoon of a certain fine Sunday when the waves of four months had roiled over the trial for treason, and carried it, as to the public interest and memory, far out to sea—"

I stop abruptly, putting the book spine up on my stomach. I look at Malcolm.

"Yew know what Noah told me, the other day?" I ask him. He doesn't reply. I say, "He told me that, if there's a chance, then there's a chance, an' that shouldn't be ignored. Ya gotta take what yew get."

He makes a noise, like a rush of wet air through his lips, like breathing to stop the pain.

"If there's a chance, then there's a chance," I repeat. "I think that's important."

Malcolm closes his eyes and breathes, in and out, in and out. I open the book again and continue.

"Far out to sea, Mr Jarvis Lorry walked along the sunny streets from…"

_-_

Fritz free throws the ball and there's the swish and clink of it going through. He and Noah high-five, scoring yet one more point for their team in our two-on-two basketball game.

David, hands on his knees and breathing hard, looks at me: "How about you start guarding Freak-boy"—he jerks his thumb at his tall best friend—"and I get the little one."

Noah looks at him, an eyebrow raised. "Who you callin' little, shrimp?"

Stirring himself to his fullest height, David looks at Noah. Or, rather, looks at Noah's chin, because Noah's five foot ten and David is incredibly not.

Hoshi walks in then, looks at us, and announces: "We're about to make port at Jupiter. I suggest you all clean up." She crooks her finger at Noah. "Come with me, husband."

"Yes, ma'am," he says and, with a short wave, wanders off after his wife.

The rest of us look at each other. Fritz says, "Yeah, Dave, you are pretty tiny."

David launches himself at Fritz with a yell and I exit; I don't want to witness the bloodbath. I go to my quarters (have I mentioned that it's good to be Captain?) and clean up. When I leave my quarters, I swing into the Sick Bay to check on Malcolm—who is still depressed and not really speaking. He's sleeping (or pretending to be, 'cause, hey, Malcolm) and I go up to the Bridge.

Most people of my senior crew are at their stations, except for David and Fritz who wander in ten minutes later completely clean and each sporting a new bruise or two. On the view screen, Jupiter Station is coming into focus, growing out from a glass marble to something larger and almost as beautiful. A lot of the crew sigh, happy to be in reach of home.

I lean in back in my chair and hope for the best.

_-_

Malcolm's taken onto a shuttle for transportation to Starfleet Hospital on Earth almost immediately, Phlox and some of his staff with him. I stay back with my crew to thank them for their dedication in coming with me before hoping a shuttle myself going to meet them.

Fritz, David, Hoshi, Noah, and Travis are with me. David and Hoshi are engaged in an animated discussion of some syntax thing or another—because Hoshi loves languages and David is the biggest geek, you know, ever—while Fritz and Noah discuss basketball, their mutual love. Travis turns to me.

"Are you going straight to the hospital?" he asks.

"I don't know," I say. "Probably."

"Yeah," says Travis. "I hear—"

"Yep." I nod, knowing almost instantly what he's going to say. It's what everyone says. "But we've got hope."

"That's good," he replies. "I can't imagine a Malcolm…" He trails off.

"We've got hope," I repeat.

We fall into a silence, before he suddenly says, "Hey, did I ever tell you about the time I was out with him, about two years ago, and he fell into these cactus-bush-thingies?"

I shake my head. He laughs.

"Oh, God, it was the best! The Doc was pulling needles out of his butt for hours and he was just sitting—rather, lying—there, you know how he is, I'm Malcolm, manly and British and stoic and this doesn't hurt—I've had Nerf balls thrown at me that have hurt worse than this hurts right now…"

_-_

We get off the shuttle, bags over our shoulders—or, rather, bags over the shoulders of the men-folk and Hoshi filing her nails daintily—and we stand around for a moment. Collectively, we breathe in the air of our planet, the scents of San Francisco and the green grass around. It's good to be home, back where we belong, even though I'm sure we all feel so alien after weeks in space, even though _we_ are not all here.

Putting her nail file away, Hoshi turns to us, asking, "Are we all going to drive together to the hospital?"

"Will there be food around?" asks David.

"I'm sure it can be arranged," replies Hoshi.

"Will you do it?" Fritz asks. Hoshi sighs.

"Yes, I will." She stares at us. "Are we going?"

There's a general chorus of 'sure' and, after a moment of staring at each other without emotion because we are the men-folk and staring without emotion is something we all have degrees in, Hoshi sighs again and trots off to get us a ride. Noah smiles.

"This is what I like," he says. "Having everything planned for me. Showing up, eating, and maybe taking a nap."

"Is that what it's like when you're married?" asks Travis curiously.

"Yep," says Noah with a nod.

"Damn," says David. "I gotta get me a wife."

"Maybe you can talk Nia into tying you down," says Fritz. David starts to get own of his main grins again and kind of giggles like a school girl. Fritz thinks about what he said and turns to David. "Don't you start."

David giggles again and Fritz steps on his foot, hard. David stops giggling and Hoshi returns.

We wait a few minutes and then our ride arrives. We all pile into the car, tossing our bags in back, and drive off in the direction of the hospital. When we get in, we ask for Malcolm Reed. The woman at the counter looks at us and then at our uniforms. She gives us the information we want, but says that we cannot go in and see him yet as he needs to be settled; she suggests we go to the waiting room and someone will come get us when he's ready. We head off looking for the family waiting room.

Admirals Archer, Black, and Blanche are there when my group and I arrive in the hospital, all sat about in the room. I look around them for Madeline, who I was sure would have been here by now. I spy Ethan, whose sitting in a kiddy chair, calmly coloring away. I'm pretty sure my confusion is displayed on my face.

"She's _en route_," says Blanche, knowing what I was thinking about in the uncanny way of mothers and highly perceptive superiors. "I was watching Ethan for her today as well."

Black stands up and claps me on the shoulder. "Good job, son."

"It was all o' us, sir," I reply, gesturing to the five behind me. He congratulates them, too, and they disperse into chairs, Hoshi and Noah together, Travis to speak with Blanche, and David and Fritz to speak with Black. Our bags are left in one corner of the room.

Jon rises and comes over to me: "Phlox says we can't go in to see him yet; they're still trying to get him settled."

"Yeah," I say, "Nurse at the counter told us."

"How was he on the ship?" asks Jon.

"He's depressed," I tell him. "His people an' his legs—doesn't know if he'll ever walk again. I don't think I can imagine him..."

"PT," he says.

"Yeah. That's what they say."

We stare at each other for a long moment before slowly hugging each other, bound with a grief that we don't know how long we'll keep or if we'll ever let it go. When we move apart, our eyes are bright and I say, throaty, "I'm gonna go walk about for a little."

He nods and moves to talk with Travis and Blanche. I stand there for a moment, watching, and then I leave.

I wander about the hospital for a while, staring at the white walls and breathing in the antiseptic smell, so strong you can taste it on your tongue. My feet feel heavy, like my heart. I'm not sure if I can handle all of this, of dealing with him broken and healing myself. Maybe—maybe together it will be easier. Maybe we can heal each other.

Looking up from my thoughts, I find myself in the lobby of the hospital and I spy the gift shop. A manic grin spreads across my face and I feel lighter than I have in days as a bound into the shop, finding my way to the comic racks. I rub my hands; _yes. _I begin my search through, looking up briefly when I feel eyes on my back. I glance at the lobby, seeing people walk passed the shop and me, looking into it. I watch them, my eyes wandering about the lobby.

The doors of the hospital slide open then, while I'm watching, with a silent gasp and there's a rush warm June air that pulses in the cool of the hospital, like a beating heart in the snow.

A thread of people enters with the warm air, and I search through the crowds with my eyes, looking for her. She's not there though, and I turn back to the comic rack, looking through it. I pick out a few that I think Malcolm may find interesting (and a few that I like), my eyes always trailing back to an opening and closing door, and go to the counter to pay for them.

Bags in hand, I make my way to the lifts and climb in. I'm not alone and people stare at my shoulders, the display of my rank. A little girl waves at me and I think, waving back, _This is what I forgot._ I forgot that some good can come of this position.

When I return to the room, people have shifted and are engaged in conversations with those they weren't before. Travis is talking with Hoshi; Noah with Jon; and Black and Blanche are chatting on about something in French, Blanche's hands cutting rapidly through the air in gestures while Black nods. Fritz and David are sat on either side of Ethan, in the little kiddy chairs in the corner of the room, drawing with the boy. David nearly fits in his chair, his legs at only a somewhat awkward angle because he is pretty small, but Fritz's knees come up to his shoulders and his back is hunched in a near perfect oval, because he's pretty not small.

"Your use of colour is impressive," Fritz is saying to Ethan quietly. Ethan looks up at him and Fritz adds, "But I especially like the wombat. It's a most striking shade of violet. Which did Crayons did you use?"

Ethan hands him some Crayons. Fritz inspects them: "Ah, yes—Eggplant, Outer Space, Desert Sand, Scarlet, Pink Sherbet, Mauvelous, and Jazzberry Jam. Good choices."

Laughing gently, I sit down in one of the chairs, between Jon and Travis.

The door to the room swings open and Madeline enters, her hair wild and eyes wide: "He's—he's—"

I stand up again, going to her. "He's back," I say, "we got him back. We can't see him yet but we got him back."

"Thank you." She whispers the word again and again and reaches out, taking my head and her hands. She pulls me down and—

Now we're kissing. I'm kissing her. I'm kissing Madeline. I'm kissing Madeline Reed. _I'm kissing Madeline Reed._

The part of me that's always been and probably always will be irrationally (or, really, maybe not so irrationally) terrified of Malcolm is screaming: _Stop! Stop, you dumb mother fucker! Think about what yew're doing and stop, for the love of God. Stop!_

The other part of me is giggling and kind of hopes I'm going to die, because this is _nice_ and I think I could get used to this.

Breathless and dazed, the first words out of my mouth as we part—her hands still tangled in my hair and mine dumbly at my sides—are, "Your brother's gonna kill me." Because, obviously, the irrational part has totally won out in the vocal part of my brain. The giggling part however wants to add: _Because we are totally going to keep doing this._

She laughs lightly, her sweet breath curling against my face and into all the hollow spaces; and the sound of her is a thousand wooden chimes in the breeze. Madeline stares up at me and her face is the world: Galaxies and stars to which I've never been. I _long_ to go there. But in her eyes—in her eyes there is still a fear and love for her brother that takes precedence and she asks, her voice soft and tossed low, "When I get to see him—will-will you come with me?"

I'm nodding before I even speak: "Of course. Always."

Madeline takes my hand and it will not be until many years later that it will occur to me what this moment meant.

We stare at each other's eyes for a long moment and then Fritz coughs in the background.

Separating quickly, she and I dedicate ourselves to the study of the floor and ceiling, respectively. I'm pretty sure I've turned a lovely shade of red too.

"Mazel tov?" Noah says uncertainly and I want to punch every single person in the room in the face. Except of course for Madeline and Ethan, though I'm sure that attitude is what got me in this position in the first place.

Ethan starts to giggle in his chair, like he gets the joke, and then Fritz and David are laughing and so is everyone else. Madeline and I are even laughing.

(I'm swearing swift and painful retribution in my head though.)

"What's so funny?"

We turn to the door, where Phlox stands, taking in the sight of us all laughing. David opens his mouth like he actually is going to tell Phlox what had just happened; Fritz puts his hand over his best friend's mouth, shaking his head.

"Ah," says Phlox. "One of those jokes that should only be repeated under the influence—I get it."

"I wish I did," I mutter.

"Miss Reed," Phlox is saying, "I'm sure you'd like to go see your brother, wouldn't you?"

She nods rapidly.

"Come with me, then."

Madeline turns to me, searching. I hold out my hand to her and she takes it. We follow Phlox from the room, hand in hand.

He leads us to a private room on floor up from the waiting room and lets us in, closing the door behind us. Malcolm lies on the bed in the middle of the room, attached to beeping machines. Phlox told us, outside, that Malcolm was still unresponsive and probably wasn't going to be speaking much.

Letting go of me, Madeline walks to the bed, unsure at first. But her step gets quicker and she's kneeling at the side of the bed, reaching out and clutching at his hand.

From the corner of the room, I stand and watch as Malcolm opens drugged eyes, very slowly, and finds Madeline's galaxy face. He smiles at her, brokenly: "Hi." And Madeline, eyes bright in her face with salt stains on her cheeks and, a gentle smile in place, looks at him.

_-_

_One more chapter left! YAY. But, before I rush off to finish it, I'd like to inform you all that, after it _is_ finished, I will be changing my writing name to '_greatunironic_', mainly so it will go with my journal. Just thought I'd put that out there. Now, I'm going to go finish this before the month of June is over. (And I already have nearly 1,500 words written too.)_


	9. Nine: The Ballad of Trip and Malcolm

**Note:** The last part; it's been a long time coming, folks, and I just want to thank all of you for keeping with this and generally, you know, bugging me to finish it. I probably would've quit last summer had you not been following. But you were and here we are. In about a week, I am no longer going to be 'Meridian Siler' and I will hopefully be posting another ENT piece that has been a side project as I've worked on The Way. Thanks to all of you again for keeping with me and maybe, just maybe, I can be talked into actually finishing the possible sequel to this. Which actually won't be depressing. I hope.  
**Thank You's: **KaleidescopeCat, Boleyn, RoaringMice (Truthfully? The 'yew' thing has even gotten on _my_ nerves. If I write a sequel, it _so_ will not be in it. And about the _Firefly_ thing? I totally didn't intend it, but thanks for saying it! That's high praise, indeed.), Tata (He'll be about as okay as I can let him be; if there's a sequel, some drama is needed.), liz (You like Noah? Yay! I was wary of throwing in another OC that would have a big part in Trip and Malcolm's lives but I'm glad he turned out well. And I sort of adore him because he's so very Zen about everything. I'm even kind of thinking about writing a Hoshi-Noah thing, because I don't write enough Hoshi. No, there won't be Malcolm's reaction to Trip and Maddy, though Dave and Fritz discuss it in this part.), and Exploded Pen.  
**Also: **In Trip's memo, things in **bold** have been struck, because won't let me use strikethrough.

Nine: The Ballad of Trip and Malcolm

_We get to carry each other  
__Carry each other_

_--U2, "One"_

_From the Transcript of Lieutenant-Commander David Webster's Debriefing_

_WEBSTER: …Commander Schlosser and I decided to go look for the Captain, as he was not answering the comm., had it off, or some doohickey was making it funky._

_JACOBS: Funky? Is that the technical term, son?_

_WEBSTER: May I consult my doctoral thesis and get back to you?_

_BLANCHE: Dave…_

_WEBSTER: Apologies. So, leaving the others in charge, we went to look for him and, to our surprise, encountered Captain Tucker as we were walking down a hallway; he was carrying Captain Reed, who looked like a wet cat dragged through a bush backwards. And then shot. We guided him back, explaining the situation, and entered the fire fight. Lt. Carter took Captain Reed from Captain Tucker._

_BLACK: So you fought?_

_WEBSTER: Yes. But after a moment, my gun was shot from my hands and, in order to retrieve it, I had to perform a highly complicated aerial flip through the burst of energy weapons. I was later chastised for this by Fritz Schlosser, who took me out back to the wood shed and beat me._

_BLACK: And then what happened?_

_WEBSTER: Well, that's about the time I got shot in the head and passed out. PAUSE Could I maybe have that bit about Fritz taking me out to the wood shed and beating me struck from the record?_

_-_

_From the Original Mission Report of Lieutenant-Commander Fritz Schlosser_

…_so I busted a cap in his ass. Proverbially speaking, of course. It was more of his head. But with alien physiognomy, you never can tell, can you? _**Edited by Captain Charles Tucker III: 'So I shot the alien adversary in his head.'**

_After I shot him, I noticed the Captain was about to be attacked; I took my pulse rifle, flipped it around, and took the alien's head off. _(See File ENT-701-02 for information on alien species, and Lt. Cmdr. Schlosser's history with it.)_ The Captain and I then engaged the enemy further with our pulse rifles as such, decapitating everything within reach. It's a good exercise for those of us with rage issues. _**Edited by Captain Charles Tucker III: Last sentence struck.**

_(By the way, Admiral Corner, I think you should try it. Maybe it would stop that vein in your forehead from throbbing so much the next time I accidentally blow your car up. Please understand I'm only concerned for your health, sir. And on the subject of health, Admiral St. Ives, please, for the love of God, get those eyebrows trimmed! I fear your forehead may cave in! Your brains are in terrible danger!) _**Edited by Captain Charles Tucker III: Entire section struck.**

_Afterwards, I…_

_-_

_From the Original Draft of a Memo to Admiral Lucien Blanche from Captain Charles Tucker III:_

…_And that's why, sir, you're probably going to need to fumigate the infirmary and **reapolster** reupholster some of the furniture in the mess. On an up note, though, we did catch the bat, so you won't have to go looking for that. **We're pretty sure nothing else got loose.** Also, Fritz Schlosser and David Webster are willing to put forth the money to pay for the repairs to the gym; Mr. Webster would like me to add that he's sorry about the blood and his mother has got a mixture that can get blood out of anything, so he'll send that over._

_As for myself, I'd like to apologize for the newly repaired hole in the Captain's quarters and the random espresso stains that you'll be able to find about the ship. Also, the dents in the walls in Engineering are partly my fault. **But I think that adds character.** I'll still gladly pay for the repairs._

_On a more serious note, I would just like to thank you again for helping get this mission approved and helping get me on as Captain. I know it took some convincing Admiral **Frosty** Corner to allow this mission to go ahead, so thank you._

_(And thanks for keeping some of the stuff I said at the dinner **on the down low** quiet. I'm sure it wouldn't have helped matters much.)_

_**Thanks** Respectfully,_

_Trip Tucker_

_P.S._

_Do you think Fritz Schlosser could ask your niece on a date? He really likes her. I think it's the blue hair._

_-_

It's one month later and I'm spending a lot of time by Malcolm's bedside. He doesn't talk to me much, so I spend a lot of that time reading or staring at the ceiling and just being there, because I think that's what he needs. Madeline does that too, just is there for him, and I think I've picked it up from her. I may love Malcolm like a brother, but he _is_ hers and they understand each other. I think it's easier for her to sit with him and just pass the time, without him saying a damn word, because she gets him, she's part of him. I'll get him though, someday.

"I see that I hold sanctuary in their hearts," I read, "and in the hearts of their descendants, generation hence. I see her, an old woman, weeping for me on the anniversary of this day. I see her and her husband, their course done, lying side by side in their last earthly bed, and I know each was not more honored and held sacred in the other's soul, than I was in the souls of both."

I look at Malcolm.

"Malcolm?" I say, my voice grave and somber, "would yew hold me sacred in your soul?"

He looks over at me. "Trip," he replies, using the exact same tone of voice I did, "are you huffing glue?"

I smile at him, because that's the Malcolm I've fought for, and turn back to the book, not needing to get over the fact that, instead of an answer, I get mocked. Because there are some things you just know, and there are no explanations, you just _know_ and it's a miracle; that's a miracle.

We finish the book in a few minutes and I shut it and it's just the two of us then, staring up at the ceiling because we finished a book and that must be a metaphor for something.

"What should we read next?" asks Malcolm suddenly. I turn over to look at him; he's staring at me.

_Progress_, I think. _One month, and progress._

"Have you read _David Copperfield_?" he asks. "Another Dickens' classic."

"I think we should read it," I say. I look at my watch. "I will actually go pick yew up a copy later today, after the grocery store."

"Grocery store?" he says.

"Your sister," I reply, my eyes comically crossed, "is a force of nature. She's makin' me go to the grocery store with her." Which is sort of true. I hate going to the grocery store, but I like hanging out with Madeline, something I am not telling Malcolm unless I'm at gunpoint, because he may be willingly confined to a hospital bed, but he's _scary_. I add, "I'm thinkin' of dragging Fritz and David along, for support, see."

"Or playmates for Ethan," says Malcolm.

"Point," I say. "They can relate to him on his level, can't they?"

"It's frightening," he says, "considering the fact that they build complex weapon's system onto Lego AT-AT Walkers."

"Gives me nightmares, I swear," I reply, sitting up and jumping off the bed. I make my way to the door.

"I sleep with a gun," Malcolm adds.

I turn to him, hand on the frame: "I thought yew always did that."

He smiles and leans back into his bed. I grin too, tap the frame, and exit, thinking again: _Progress_.

_-_

As it turns out, Fritz and David are completely unhinged and enjoy going to grocery stores. Actually, I've known about the unhinged thing for a while, but I thought maybe they had some hope. But, no, they don't; they're insane.

I found them testing in their labs, with Admirals Blanche and Black watching. They waved me in and I sat down to watch. Black announced a few minutes later that he had to leave and would you like to accompany me to the door, Mr. Tucker? I followed him out and he had a few choice words with me; I nodded, went back in, collected Fritz and David after minimal argument, and left Blanche to follow after Black.

So now I have two clinically insane geniuses with me—

"I'm king of the world!"

—that also happen to be recreating _Titanic _in a grocery cart in the middle of the bread aisle.

Fritz and Ethan, sitting in a grocery cart, come whooshing passed us, David steering the thing.

"They're going to get kicked out," notes Madeline, not at all concerned.

"Or crash into something," I say, watching them make a return trip.

"Don't worry, Miss Reed," calls Fritz, "I'll toss your son out before that happens."

Laughing, they turn out of the aisle and into another one. Madeline gives a long suffering sigh and turns back to the peanut butter. She stretches up at the jar while I lean my arms against the bar of the cart, which I'm pushing for her.

"Malcolm and I finished _A Tale of Two Cities_," I tell her. She nods, still trying to reach the jar.

"Yes, he's a big Dickens fan," she says. "One of his favourite authors, in fact."

"We're goin' to read _David Copperfield_ next," I say. "His suggestion."

"Can you help me with this?" she asks, pointing to the jar. "And it's good that he's actually participating with you, isn't it?"

"He's bein' a smartass again, too," I reply; "asked me if I was 'huffing glue'."

"Good," she says. "And, honestly, Charles, help me."

I stand up: "Would yew like me to find a box? Maybe a stepladder? 'Cause that's what we do for Dave."

"Yes, I'm a tiny little woman, Charles, now stop making jokes and get the damn peanut butter for me," she says, snapping her fingers at me. I smile and she adds, "And never equate me to David Webster ever again. I like to think I am quite a bit saner than him."

"Y'are," I say. "Just you're both pretty short."

She rolls her eyes at me and I smile, making her smile too. I grab the peanut butter off the shelf for her and toss it in the cart. She pulls out her list again and starts to move forward, trusting that I'm following behind her. Madeline grabs a loaf of bread and puts it in, still walking and trusting. I tilt my head and watch as her hips sway; for purely academic reasons, I assure you.

Without even turning around, she says, "Stop staring at my arse, Charles."

I snap up: "I was doing no such thing!"

Madeline turns to smile coyly at me, saying, "Women have a sixth sense about these things. _We know_."

Blinking, I reply, "Well that's just damned unfair."

She smiles wickedly at me and continues on. I lean back against the arm rest. David, Fritz, and Ethan come whooshing past us again, taking the corner sharply, almost tipping over, and, in front of me, Madeline lets out another sigh.

"Why did they come again?" she asks. Their laughter is faded against our ears.

"They like grocery stores. And, apparently," I say, "they woulda been left alone with Admiral Blanche and they seem ta get into all sorts a trouble with him."

This is an understatement for Madeline's benefit. I don't think it wise to tell her what Admiral Black told me in our private conversation: _If you don't take those two brilliant madmen with you, they're going to end up blowing another car up, or blowing off another door, or knocking over a liquor store—_again—_and you will be joining Jon, Stefan, and I in playing 'rock, paper, scissors' for who has to post their bond _this time_. Are we understood, Captain?_

I got the signal loud and clear, and here we are, the five of us in a grocery store because I don't feel up to posting bond.

There's a sudden crash and a rush of apologies; okay, so I may be posting bond today, but at least it won't be for knocking over a liquor store. (Which is something I never, ever want to know about in any detail; I'm completely okay with never knowing how they managed to knock over a liquor store and, more importantly, _why_.)

Fritz and David, with Ethan holding their hands and swinging between them, slink back to us.

"Cart confiscated?" I ask.

"Maybe," replied David childishly. Ethan giggles and the Gruesome Twosome swing Ethan higher.

Madeline shakes her head with an air of long suffering and announces that she's finished with her shopping. We go to the checkout and pay before heading out to put the groceries away. Fritz and I start putting the groceries away while Madeline does something with her checkbook.

"Hey, Fritzy; we need quarters," David calls out from where he's standing with Ethan next to an old, mechanical riding toy. Fritz reaches into his pocket without question, fishes out the requisite change, and tosses them one by one to David, who smiles at his best friend in return. Fritz turns back to me and starts helping with the groceries again.

"Are you going to come back and watch the testing?" asks Fritz as he helps.

"For a while," I say. "Then I gotta go pick up some books for Malcolm."

Fritz nods and falls silent as Madeline comes over to me. She and I stand next to each other for a moment before Fritz coughs into his hand and mutters some excuse about being needed over by David and Ethan for some serious standing. I keep putting bags away.

She asks, "Are you interested in having dinner tonight? Just the two of us?"

I squeeze a head of lettuce so I don't start screaming, "Yes, hell yes, when when when?" and instead say, "Sure, where?"

"That place you took Ethan and I, back before," she says.

"Great, pick you up at seven?" I reply. She smiles and goes to pick up her son from David, who, when Madeline's back is turn, starts making obscene make-out gestures. I shake my head at him while Fritz slaps his best friend's forehead, saying something about how he'll never get a wife if he doesn't grow the hell up. David retorts with a line about Lieutenant Blanche and I go and collect my charges before they manage to get in a fistfight outside of a grocery store.

Which is probably already a charge on their arrest sheets, but I don't want to know about that either.

-

"So, a date?" asks David, fiddling with a microscope.

"Yes," I reply. Fritz and David smile at each other over my head. I snap, "Cut that out!"

"Cut what out?" asks Fritz, the epitome of innocence.

"Yew know," I say. They shrug at each other and go back to their testing.

"I like her," says David. "You two make a lovely couple." I stare at him and he says, "But that's all I will say for the remainder of the evening."

"It's disturbing," says Fritz thoughtfully, "how eloquent you are at times when, just an hour ago, you were making quite the animated—and pornographic, I must say—gestures."

"It's a gift," David nods.

I shake my head at them, admiring the change from teenagers who like to amuse themselves with vulgarities and jokes about hookers to civilized men who—I swear to God, I have seen in happen—have conversations about 20th Century art and its impact on the society of present day man. I hope that they can stay the latter for just a little bit longer.

There's a knock on the door and we all turn to it as David says, "Come."

"Hello, all," says Admiral Blanche as he enters. Lieutenant Gisele Blanche waves at us from his side, and then sends a beaming smile to Fritz, who promptly has more colour in his face than I have ever seen there before. Gisele bites her bottom lip, still smiling at him. David and I share a knowing look. The Admiral, of course, ignores all of this, and says, "We were just in the area; I'm taking Gisele back to her office after a lunch, and we decided to pop in. See how you all were."

"We're great," says David. And then he launches into this long explanation about the experiment they're working on, full of technical detail, while the Blanches listen. I stand there too, listening and playing with some do-dad. Gisele, every once in a while, looks over at Fritz. The German is busy standing off to the side and being awkward.

After they're gone, I walk over to Fritz and stand beside him: "Yew should have asked her out."

"You can go to hell," he replies. Over from David's general direction, there is a humming of 'Fritz and Gisele, sittin' in a tree,' and Fritz yells over to him, "You can go to hell, too!"

David holds up a piece of paper. "Already got my ticket, buddy."

I go over to him and look at it. It is, in fact, a little ticket that says 'Hell, Admit One' and you have really got to wonder what these lunatics get up to in their free time. Or maybe not, because not thinking about what they do allows for plausible deniability.

Laughing, David skips off to somewhere else in the lab and Fritz comes over to me, looking at the notes David left on the table.

"Yew should really ask her out," I say again. "She likes you."

"I hate all of you people, you know that, right?" he asks pitifully. He brightens. "You know, maybe we could talk about your illicit affair with Madeline again. How about that?"

"Oh, _oh_," David pipes up from behind a lab table then, happily. "Torrid!"

"Yes, and liaison," Fritz says firmly. "Your torrid, illicit _liaison_ with Miss Reed."

"It's not illicit," I say defensively.

"Then why doesn't Malcolm know?" David asks.

"That's not the point," I say. "And how do yew two know that Malcolm doesn't know?"

"Illicit," Fritz and David say together. Without even looking at each other, no less. "A torrid, illicit liaison."

"Okay, leave me alone," I snap. "David, you're short and, Fritz, yew have an unhealthy crush on Lieutenant Blanche that I think yew need to act on." Not the best comebacks ever, I admit.

Fritz flips me the bird from the side and David appears out of nowhere, his face framed between our shoulders. He leers at Fritz, saying, "Yeah maybe you should let Lieutenant Blanche _tie you down_. And possibly you too, Captain. But with Madeline. Or not." He goes all cross-eyed. "Kinky."

"What _are_ you?" asks Fritz, hitting David in the forehead to push him away.

David disappears again, his cackling the only proof of him actually being in the room. He starts singing again and Fritz looks like he's about to commit homicide (possibly double, because I'm pretty sure this conversation is actually entirely my fault), so I look at my watch whichdisplays that it's ten minutes past one, announce, "Hey, look at the time, I'm supposed to go pick up some books for Malcolm," and beat a hasty retreat.

Out in the hall, I hear David sing louder and a roar and a crash and laughter. I leave the scene, muttering, "It's not illicit," because it totally isn't. I don't care what they say.

_-_

Returning from the bookstore (and the hospital gift shop because there was chocolate and this teddy bear and I'm kind of curious to see how Malcolm will react when I give it to him; hoping he doesn't kill me, though—I'm thinking he'll just shoot the bear), I pause briefly in the hallway near Malcolm's room, putting a foot against the wall so I can adjust the two bags in my arms.

Situated, I start back down the hall but I freeze before I turn into Malcolm's room; because I can hear voices as the words drift out, softly rising through the air like music notes on an old piano. I inch towards the door, cautiously, and stop by the door frame, just looking in.

Jon is sitting by Malcolm's bed, elbow on knee and chin pressed on hand. Malcolm is looking directly at him.

"I never forgave you, Jon," says Malcolm, matter of fact.

"No, Malcolm, you never did," he replies, his voice filled with acceptance.

There is a long pause. For a while, Jon desperately tries not to look into Malcolm's eyes but Malcolm eventually catches his and holds them. I move away from the door frame, leaning against the wall next to it and feeling like a voyeur. But I can't stop; I have to hear the reconciliation. I need to know that we can be okay.

Malcolm's disembodied voice says: "I'm sorry about that."

I let loose a sigh into the air at the same time Jon does.

They're quiet again for a long time. I can't imagine what is happening and I don't think I want to; I want to live in the reality now. Jon's chair makes a scraping noise as he pushes back and rises. His feet sound heavy when he walks; I'm used to space, we all are. Our bodies are too heavy here.

"You'll come back?" asks Malcolm suddenly.

"Tuesday," replies Jon. "I'll be back Tuesday."

"Good."

Jon exits the room and I pretend that I'm just coming up the hall, carrying my bag of books.

"Admiral!" I say, not even having to pretend I'm happy.

I don't know when it happened—it could have been back on the ship when I found him, or it could have been when Noah gave me the advice, or it may in fact have been just now—but there's a mark. There's a mark, somewhere inside of me, of how far we've come, of how far we've gone, of how far we still have yet to go. It's a mark of progress, of what we have been put through and how we've come out of it. It's a mark of how much we all love each other, despite every all those things that we have gone through: the fights, the heartbreak, all of it…

There's a mark, inside of me; I think it means that, maybe, we'll be—

"Back from the store?" asks Jon.

"Yep," I reply, a smile stretched across my face. "Picked up some more Dickens for him; we're gonna start in on _David Copperfield_. After that, I plan ta introduce him Adams and the meaning of life, the universe, and everything."

"Nice," he says. There's a light in his broken earth eyes, like grass sprouting through dry dirt, mending.

_-_

I have this dream.

Malcolm and I are lying on an ice covered pond and it's night out. We're watching the stars. And it's nice, it feels nice, just him and me there. It's quiet and peaceful and we never move, just lie in silence, and we don't hurt and then—

He smashes a snowball into my face and darts up. I scramble on the ice after him. We're laughing and laughing, tripping and falling, tumbling into each other and falling into snow banks and behaving likes kids. And we're laughing.

_-_

_David Copperfield _lies in the lap of Malcolm's giant teddy bear (which is wearing an eye patch—courtesy of me—and a surgeon's hat—from Phlox—with a bull's eye drawn on its chest—Malcolm's own handiwork—and scalpels in each hand that I don't want to know how David and Fritz got a hold of) as it sits on his bedside table while Malcolm and I have a rousing video game fight.

My screen suddenly turns red as I die.

"What?" I say. "What the hell?"

"I mêlée-ed you with my rifle from behind," Malcolm informs me.

"Well, that's cheating," I tell him, trying to find him again on the screen when my body regenerates.

"No it is not," says Malcolm. "It's an entirely legitimate course of action."

"It's cheatin' when the other guy doesn't know about it! _Goddammit_!" I shout, being killed again. I throw my controller down in a fit of pique.

A nurse pops her head in: "Captain Tucker, I'm going to have to ask you to please keep it down or I will be forced to throw you out."

I nod and smile at her until she leaves; I turn back to Malcolm: "Yew whore. Yew totally have these nurses under your thumb."

He puts his hands behind his head, reclining. "It is not my fault they find me attractive."

"Only yew," I say, "can knock on death's door and then hit on women."

"That's not true," he replies. "You can."

I grin, full of my self. "This _is_ true." And it definitely is. I'm a force of nature. Just ask Madeline. Not like I'm going to tell that to Malcolm, because I'm not entirely prepared for the inevitable therapy of talking to Malcolm about going out on a date and making out with his sister, and, of course, my subsequent death.

We sit in silence for a moment, staring at the darkened screen. I fidget.

"Yew wanna go for a ride?" I ask.

"A ride?" he repeats.

"Yeah, in the car," I say. "It'll be like _Riding in Cars with Boys_, except not."

"Seriously," says Malcolm. "Are you on glue? Do you huff a bottle of glue right outside the door before you come to visit me?"

"Nah," I reply. "I think I'm just spendin' too much time with Dave and Fritz."

"Explains the bizarre 20th century movie references," he says.

"Actually, I think that one's 21st, but I get confused," I say. "So, yew wanna?"

Malcolm sighs, like he knows he'll regret it, and waves a hand at me. "Go, get me my ride."

I jump out of my chair and bow lowly, nose towards the floor, say, "Yes, Master" in my best Igor impersonation because, really, I am spending too much time with the Gruesome Twosome, and hobble away like a hunchback. His laughter follows me out and I think, _Score. Progress._

_-_

We drive around for an hour, listening to the radio, before we decide to get some ice cream because, mm, _ice cream_.

I get his wheel chair out and help him into it; people stare at us, the man and the cripple, and Malcolm throws his patented Malcolm Glare of Doom, Security Officer Version, at them. They look away. (Which doesn't really mean much. Back when the Admiral was the Captain, even _he _couldn't withstand the glare. Man cracked like a little girl and gave Malcolm the extra guns.) With Malcolm rolling along beside me, I walk into the shop, where more people stare and he tosses his glare about like dust.

"What do you want?" I ask him.

"Anything, so long as it has sugar," he says. "Phlox won't allow me anything that is bad for you."

"Biggest size?" I ask.

"Biggest size," he replies, because he knows I won't tell even though it will probably get me in trouble for aiding and abetting. At least, this time, Phlox can't hold 'me helping to break Malcolm out' against me.

Once we get the ice cream, we head back outside where I sit down on a bench and Malcolm rolls and parks his wheel chair next to me. (He does it with ease because, a) he's been practicing for when he's free again and, b) there was once an incident with the Gruesome Twosome and wheelchairs were somehow involved, for reasons I do not care to know because I'm pretty sure they don't know why.)

We eat the ice cream in silence.

"Progress is a two way street, Trip," says Malcolm suddenly.

"What?" Have I been talking to myself aloud again?

"If you want me to heal completely, you have got to lay down your burdens," he replies.

"Lay down my burdens?" I repeat. "That's a damn long list."

"I cannot move my legs," he says, and it's almost like he doesn't feel it, it's almost like it doesn't hurt him, it's almost like he believes he's okay with it; "I'm not exactly going anywhere soon."

I lean my head back and stare at the sky. "Here," I say, "here's something. For the past seven years, I've been havin' this recurring dream. This dream where yew die, and I can't do a damn thing about it. We're lyin' on this iced over pond in the middle of winter and suddenly yew just _die_, okay? And I start screaming, because I know you're dead, I felt yew die, and it's over. We're over. Because yew died on me. So we're over."

A long time ago, we would have mad jokes about Freudian psychology, and how this all just means I really want to do Malcolm in a broom closet or somethin'.

Then again, a long time ago Malcolm wouldn't have asked me to lay down my burdens and I wouldn't have said a damn thing even if he had.

He stares at me. "I'm sorry your feel that way, Trip, but you were the one who left me, remember?"

"I do," I say. "I do."

"But I'm here now," he adds, like he didn't even hear me.

Laughter bubbles up in my chest, hysterical and broken, and suddenly I'm crying in the middle of a parking lot, sitting on the ground, and Malcolm rolls up and wraps his arms around my shoulders, as best he can in a wheel chair. He whispers, "There, there, don't cry, I'm here, I'm here," and what kind of weird ass parody of the last two months is this? Aren't I supposed to be the one comforting him?

After a while, my tears stop and I laugh out, "Don't know why I just did that."

"It's called healing, Trip," he says. "Or, if Noah's to be believed, spending too much time with women and watching their 'chick flicks'."

"Yeah," I say. We're quiet for a long time. I burst out, "I had the dream the other night too. Except—except yew didn't die. Instead, yew smashed a snowball in my face and I chased after yew."

"_That,_" says Malcolm sagely, "that is called healing."

I smile at him and he continues to eat his ice cream, looking away from me.

After a moment, he tells me, "I'm absolutely disgusted with myself that I lived, Trip. That I lived and they all died, when, as Captain, I should have gone down with the ship. And I'm horrified that I broke down like that when you found me, that I was insane with grief and hatred towards myself. And I'm terrified that I will never walk again and I think that's my punishment." He pauses. "My burdens."

I hold out my free hand to him from where I sit on the ground and he takes it, not even looking, just knowing that I reached out my hand to him. We sit there holding hands and not looking at each other, because how do you deal with this? My dreams have ended and I'm back with him again, but he has got miles to go and _that_ terrifies _me_. I'm terrified of the fact that I seem to be getting better, and getting everything, when he's broken and bleeding on the inside. It terrifies me that he might never be okay again.

He says, "Phlox is making me visit a psychologist twice a week, because of it. Because of my burdens. I just—I wanted to know you'll be there too."

"I gave yew my hand," I say. He nods.

"And I took it."

"So we're gonna be okay," I say. Malcolm glances at me through the corners of his eyes. He finishes his ice cream and taps his fingers against the arm rests of his wheelchair.

"How do you figure that?" he asks.

"It's just," I begin, leaning back. How do I explain it? How do I explain, despite his grief and pain and all of my deeply troubled psychoses, despite all that we've gone through, that we can be okay? "It—I mean, the law of large numbers says we gotta win one of these days, right?"

He cracks a bitter smile and stares off into the distance. I watch him. We fought for so long, and look what's happened to us: We lost. It's a simple as that. We fought for so long and we lost. We're broken and bleeding and troubled and _we _lost. I don't even know if we're the good guys anymore; I know, at one point, we were, we even fought _for_ them too. But too much has happened. How do we know the next fight we, you know, fight isn't going to be lost too?

_Because we're the good guys_, whispers a little voice in my head. I sigh and look forward, to the concrete miles that stretch before us. We are the good guys, aren't we? Now, more than ever. We fight because we're the good guys, because someone has to fight, and why can't that be us, huh? And, maybe, you know, we're not the people we were, we're not the way we were, but we're still the good guys, and we'll keep fighting, even though we know we're probably going to lose, because we are broken and bleeding and troubled. Because we _don't_ fight the fights we _know_ we can win: We fight the fights that need fighting and it doesn't matter if we win them, so long as we fought.

"We're gonna be okay," I repeat, squeezing his fingers once and letting go.

He looks at me, full on this time. Our eyes lock and I can't see the wheelchair and Malcolm just nods, like he knows my thoughts. There's a light in his eyes that mirrors the mark I've found in myself and he's just nodding.

And it's like we've been to the future and back in a few minutes, like we've explored ourselves and found the universe, because Malcolm's just nodding and I'm standing up.

**The End**


End file.
